Still crouched in front of him, she brought her hand to his face, letting her thumb skim across the rough stubble at his jaw. “But I came back. That has to count for something.”
Tool leaned into her touch, just a fraction. Just enough to feel it.
“You can stay,” he said, voice almost broken. “If you want.”
“I do,” she whispered. “But I’m not staying to pick up your pieces. I’m staying because I want to know who you are when you’re not hiding behind the wreckage.”
He didn’t kiss her again. Not yet. He just pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her neck.
Brandi sank into him, arms around his back, heart thudding steady as she held him there grounding him, holding the line until he could find his way through the fog.
Tonight wasn’t about heat or lust or old wounds. It was about something simpler.
The apartment was quiet. Just the hum of the fridge and the muted tick of a wall clock somewhere behind them. Tool hadn’t moved from the couch, but his grip on her waist had tightened, as if he realized she wasn’t going to disappear.
Brandi didn’t rush him.
She sat with him like that, bodies close, her fingers slowly tracing the tattoos on his arm. There was something unspoken between them—thick and crackling like the summer air before a storm. When Tool finally looked up, his eyes were clearer, but still dark with everything he hadn’t said.
“You sure you want to stay?” he asked again, voice low and rough.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
His hand slid up her back, slow and warm, until it reached the nape of her neck. He cradled her there like he was holding something breakable. She leaned in—nose brushing his, lips barely grazing.
“Then stay,” he murmured, just before their mouths met.
The kiss started softly. Gentle. Just mouths reacquainting. But it deepened quickly, hunger stirring beneath the surface.Brandi climbed into his lap without hesitation, knees bracketing his thighs as his arms locked around her.
She tasted whiskey on his tongue and heat in the way he kissed her—like he was afraid she’d change her mind if he let her go. But she didn’t. She sank into him, fingers curling into his hair, her body molding to his like it had always belonged there.
When they finally broke apart, breath ragged, Tool rested his forehead against hers.
“You undo me,” he whispered.
“Good,” she breathed back.
Tool stood, taking her hand without a word. He led her past the couch, past the cluttered table and the dim kitchen light, into the bedroom tucked behind a half-open sliding door. It wasn’t much—just a mattress on a low frame, sheets in disarray, and the soft scent of clean laundry clinging to the room. But it was his space.
And tonight, it would betheirs.
He turned to her in the dark, the only light coming from the kitchen spilling across the floor. His hand came up, fingers curling around the back of her neck. His touch was firm, familiar, reverent.
“You sure?” he asked again, voice low and husky.
Brandi stepped in, closing the small space between them. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
That was all he needed.
He kissed her again, deeper this time—less hesitant, more need. She melted into it, hands sliding under his shirt as his fingers gripped her waist. Clothes came off slowly, piece by piece, like they were unwrapping each other after too long apart. Her shirt hit the floor. Then his. Her jeans. His belt. Skin met skin in warm, aching contact that made them both shudder.
When he finally laid her back on the bed, his body hovered above hers—eyes locked on hers as if he was still waiting for her to vanish.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.
Tool dipped his head and kissed her again, slower this time, drawing it out. His hands moved down her body with practiced care, learning her all over again. Brandi’s breath caught when he dragged his mouth along her collarbone, his stubble rasping lightly against her skin. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him back to her lips as their bodies tangled.
It wasn’t rushed.
