I close my eyes against the intensity of emotion threatening to overwhelm me. "Savannah..."
"I know it's complicated. I know there are things we need to talk about." She cups my face in her hands, forcing me to look at her. "But right now, at this moment, I just want to be here with you."
My hands map the curves of her waist, the softness of her hips, the way her body responds to my touch. She's beautiful, every inch of her, and I want to show her exactly how perfect she is.
"You're so beautiful," I murmur against her lips. "So fucking perfect."
She melts against me, and I can feel the exact moment her control snaps. Her hands are everywhere - tangling in my hair, gripping my shoulders, pulling me closer like she can't get enough.
The music continues to play around us, but all I can focus on is the woman in my arms, the way she's kissing me like her life depends on it, the soft sounds she makes when I trail my lips down her neck to the bite mark that claims her as mine.
I kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the taste and feel of her after eight years of dreams and regrets. The music continues to play around us, and we start moving again, lost in each other and the rhythm and the possibility of second chances.
Outside, the world continues spinning, full of wedding planning stress and family drama and all the complications that come with trying to rebuild something that was broken. But in this moment, in this room, with Savannah in my arms and our playlist filling the silence between us, everything feels possible again.
24
GRIFF
Three weeks of this shit and I still wake up confused.
The smell of coffee drags me out of sleep, which pisses me off because I didn't set the timer. Someone's in my kitchen making noise, and my first thought is to go deal with whoever broke in. My fists clench automatically before my brain catches up.
Then Savannah's scent hits me like a warm wall. Right. She's been here since we all lost our minds and made this official three weeks ago. Still getting used to waking up with her warm body next to mine. Makes my chest do something stupid every morning.
I grunt and roll out of bed, bare feet hitting cold hardwood. Logan and Xavier are still dead to the world, sprawled across my mattress like they own it. Typical. Leave it to me to handle whatever's happening downstairs.
Her stuff's everywhere now. I step over her boots by the door, duck under her jacket hanging on the banister. It should annoy me more than it does. Instead it makes something warm settle in my gut.
I follow the coffee smell and her off-key humming. Stop in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, because seeing her in my kitchen still hits me like a punch to the gut every morning.
She's wearing one of my flannel shirts and nothing else I can see. The thing hits mid-thigh, and every time she reaches up into the cabinet, I catch glimpses of smooth skin that make my mouth go dry. Hair's in a messy bun that somehow looks good. My hands itch to mess it up more.
"Morning," she says without turning around, pouring coffee into my favorite mug. Must've smelled me coming.
"Yeah," I grunt, padding closer on bare feet. She hands me the mug and our fingers brush. A little spark shoots up my arm every damn time. Coffee smells better than the crap I usually drink. She found Logan's good beans.
"You're up early," I say, settling against the counter where I can watch her move around my space like she's mapping it.
"Couldn't sleep." She glances over her shoulder with a small smile that makes warmth spread through my chest. "Still getting used to sharing a bed with three alphas who fight for space even when they're unconscious."
Makes something possessive twist in my gut. She's in our bed. Has been for weeks. Should scare me, but instead it makes me want to throw her over my shoulder and remind her where she belongs.
"Logan kicks," I say, taking a sip of perfectly brewed coffee.
"And Xavier steals blankets." She turns back to the toaster, butter knife in hand. "You sprawl everywhere and take up three quarters of the bed."
"My bed," I point out, watching her spread butter with careful precision.
"Your bed," she agrees, but there's something uncertain in her voice. Like she's not sure she belongs. Makes my chest tight.
She's making toast, moving around finding plates I forgot we had, napkins that aren't paper towels. Making my usual grab-coffee-and-go look like actual breakfast. Watching her take care of shit makes something uncomfortable twist in my chest.
"You don't have to do all this," I say, gesturing at the spread with my mug. "I can handle my own food."
"I know." She hands me a plate with toast cut diagonally, fingers gentle when they brush mine. "I wanted to. Is that okay?"
Catches me off guard. She's asking permission to take care of me. No one's done that in years. Makes my throat go tight.
