His arm lay heavy across her waist, hand splayed low over her stomach. Every time his chest rose, it nudged her a little closer to believing last night had not been some elaborate dream.
The dance. The warehouse. The way he had said our future like it belonged to both of them.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She winced and reached blindly for it, trying not to jostle him. The screen lit her face in a soft glow.
One new text from Mom. A second from Dad beneath it; shorter, more practical.
Mom: How are you doing this morning, sweetheart? Call when you can. xx
Dad: Weather’s decent. We’re going to the cemetery this afternoon.
The words sent a familiar ache through her chest. Cemetery. Bryn. The life that had ended so painfully short.
Hank’s voice came low and sleepy behind her. “You okay?”
She jumped a little, then relaxed back into him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Your breathing changed,” he said, sliding his palm in a slow arc over her stomach. “You tense when something hurts.”
She swallowed. Of course, he would catalog that. “Text from my parents.”
“Bad news?”
“No.” She stared at the screen again. “Just normal news that still stings.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. His hair stuck up on one side, flattened on the other; the sight made something soft pull in her. Hank James, Copper Moon Cup champion, race helmet traded for bedhead.
“You want to call them now?” he asked. “I can take a walk, find coffee.”
She turned onto her back so she could see him properly. “No. Not yet. I need to figure out how to say ‘hey, remember how you thought this was a short trip, surprise, I might have accidentally found a life.’”
His mouth curved. “You make it sound like you tripped over it in the hallway.”
“Feels a little like that.” She brushed her thumb over the tattoo on his shoulder, tracing the edges of the ink. “How are you doing?”
“Physically?” He did a quick mental inventory; she could see it on his face. “Sore in the usual ways. Brain’s still doing after-action reports.”
“About the race, or the nitrous situation?”
“Both.” His gaze searched hers. “And about a warehouse, I may have already mentally filled with lifts and toolboxes.”
She smiled, nervous and excited all at once. “You really meant it. That you want to do this.”
“Bree.” His tone sharpened gently. “I don’t say stuff like that to hear myself talk. We walked into that place yesterday, and for the first time in a long time, my head didn’t immediately go to exit routes. It went to possibilities. That feels important. Brian, Colby, and I have talked about doing this for a long time. I started it, planted the seeds, but the more we joked, talked, and planned, the more real it became. The issue was...where? Back home, there wasn't anything like this warehouse that we could afford. The fact that this came up, here and now, along with the mayor offering concessions through tax credits and support, makes me believe it has to be here.”
She heard the unspoken part; the Marine who had spent years in places where a building meant cover or a target or both. The fact that he could stand in that ugly old warehouse and think about lifts instead of ambushes said more than any speech.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “So let’s talk about what possibilities cost.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Spoken like a woman who has actually looked at her bank account in the last six months.”
“I’m a working artist,” she said. “I check my balance more than I check my email.”
He rolled onto his back and hooked one arm under his head. “All right. Practicalities. We’ve got prize money from the Cup. After taxes, team percentage, and the usual slices, I still come out ahead enough to make a solid down payment on renovations. I’ve got savings from the last few seasons. I’m not rich, but I’m not living on instant noodles.”
“Instant noodles are underrated,” she said, then sobered. “I’ve got some savings. Most of my paintings go to people who pay me in actual money, not exposure. I sold that series in Milwaukee. The one with the industrial waterfront.”
