I don’t move. Don’t even breathe too deeply. I just lay here and let myself want it, let myself feel the terrifying, grounding truth settle in. For the first time in my life, waking up somewhere doesn’t make me want to leave.
It makes me want to stay.
Morning is completely different when I don’t wake up alone. I don’t rush it. Don’t slip out of bed like I usually do, quiet as a ghost. Danae is still asleep when I finally ease up on one elbow, shifting from under her. I let myself look.
Really look.
This isn’t a woman passing through my life. My gut knows that, even if my brain hasn’t caught up yet. The road dog in me—the part that’s always itching to move—stays silent. No pull. No restlessness. Just a strange, steady calm I don’t trust but don’t want to let go of either.
Eventually she stirs, blinks up at me like she’s orienting herself to a new world.
“Morning,” she murmurs.
“Morning,” I say with a damn smirk because this shit feels good in a way I can’t put into words.
She smiles, small and real, and that’s enough to wreck me for the rest of the day. “Probably should start the day, buddy.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Buddy? That’s what I am?”
She shrugs, “yeah, it was fun. You can be my buddy. But life is life, friend, and I have a cousin to get back to.”
The ease between us is nice, but I can’t help but notice the way my gut knots up being called her buddy and friend. Why? I don’t know. I’ve never cared what any woman called me, from being a God in bed to an asshole, it was all the same to me. So why does her boxing me up into this weird space piss me off a little bit?
We head over to Raff’s late morning. Danae insists on bringing coffee, because that’s who she is—never shows up empty-handed, never walks into a house without thinking about what the people inside might need.
The place is alive when we get there.
Justice is in the yard with a scuffed-up soccer ball, Raff already outside with him, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a rushed shower. Josie’s inside with the baby, the house humming with that quiet newborn rhythm—soft voices, squeaking floorboards, life settling into new grooves.
Danae slips inside without a word, already halfway into caretaker mode, and I catch Raff watching her through the window before he looks back at me.
Justice barrels toward me. “Miles!”
I brace just in time as he crashes into my legs. “Hey, man.”
“You gonna play?” he asks, eyes hopeful.
I glance at Raff. He grins. “You’re up.”
We spend the next hour kicking the ball around the yard, Justice laughing loud enough to carry down the block. It’s easy. Easier than it should be. Raff moves like a man who finally knows exactly where he belongs, and I’m content. That realization sneaks up on me sideways.
At some point, Raff nods toward the porch. “Water break.”
Justice flops down dramatically, gulping from his bottle. Raff and I step a few feet away, the easy silence of men who don’t need to fill every space.
Raff studies me for a moment. “So,” he says.
I sigh. “There it is.”
“There it is,” he agrees. “What’s the deal with Danae?”
I lean back against the railing, eyes drifting toward the window. I can see her inside, rocking Journey gently, Josie watching her with something like awe.
“I didn’t plan this,” I begin..
Raff snorts. “Nobody ever does.”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “I met her on a run. Back in Arkansas.”
