"While we were here. Yes." His hand drifts to where his gun sits on the counter, an unconscious tell I'm learning means danger. "They wanted to know where you were. If you were alone."
“Since when are you best friends with my security guy?”
His brow furrows, a cute little ridge between his eyebrows. “Best friends?”
“All texts, phone calls, passing on messages from other boys.” I bite into my toast, wipe some butter from my lips.
“Just managing your safety,” he says.
I settle onto a barstool while he leans against the counter, coffee mug in hand. Black coffee, of course. Everything about him is efficiency, even his caffeine intake.
"Do you ever just… exist?" I ask. "Without assessing threats and measuring distances and whatever else that military brain does?"
"You're not a threat."
"I could be. I'm very dangerous."
"You burned toast yesterday."
"Dangerously bad at cooking. Still counts."
The corner of his mouth twitches, that almost-smile I'm getting better at spotting. He moves past me to rinse his mug, and his hand trails across my lower back as he passes. Casual, possessive, claiming. Like I'm his to touch whenever he wants. The simple contact makes me wet.
I shiver.
"Cold?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Then what?" He sets the mug down with a soft clink against the metal sink.
"You touched me." I trace the path his fingers took across my skin. "Like you didn't have to think about it."
He pauses at the sink, his shoulders tensing slightly before he turns to face me. "I didn't."
Something cracks open in my chest. This man who calculates every movement, who counts every breath, touches me without thinking. Like I'm already part of his operating system. Like I belong in his space.
We migrate to the couch, and I curl against him like it's the most natural thing in the world. His arm comes around me automatically, pulling me closer until I'm practically in his lap.
I trace the tattoos on his ribs, following the lines of ink with my fingertip. Latin script curves along his side: "Per aspera ad astra."
"Through hardship to the stars," he translates when I look up at him questioningly. "A buddy had it. He didn't make it home."
"I'm sorry."
"Long time ago."
But I can see the truth in his eyes. These things don't get further away. They just get quieter, buried under discipline and duty until something cracks them open again. His body is a memorial to grief, each mark someone who mattered, someone lost.
“I’m still sorry.”
He just shrugs, pulls me a little closer, and we snuggle tighter on the sofa.
"Do you have any hidden talents?" I ask, needing to know everything about this man. "Besides throwing people into rocks and making surprisingly good eggs."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I used to play piano."
I nearly fall off the couch. "WHAT?"
