Iwakeupmiddayand pace the kitchen, looking out towards the patio. My hair’s tangled, and I’m just wearing my chunky knitted cardigan.
Two kisses.
Two.
And nothing more.
No expectations, no pressure, just… warmth lingering where his lips touched mine.
I pace the kitchen, my head full of thoughts.
The cold morning air drifts in through the open door, brushing my neck, and I hate it and love it at the same time. Silence isn’t punishment today—it’s an invitation. But my mind is a war zone.
Why is this so different? Most men I’ve kissed, or let kiss me, want chaos, a quick fuck, then vanish into thin air until the next time we happen to meet. Ethan—he’s steady. He’s calm. He’s… he’s patient. And it’s killing me in the best way. I want him. But my past, my noise, my mistakes—they don’t belong in his neat, ordered world.
The phone buzzes.
Banks.
My thumb hovers over the green icon, and my heart skips a beat. It didn’t end well the last time he was here. I miss him so much. Ihesitate answering because I’m wondering if he’s calling to tell me he’s found another gig. Some other lucky industry star to manage their life for them.
“Banks,” I say, voice a scratchy whisper, “I… I’m sorry. For yelling. I didn’t mean it. You’re more than just payroll to me. You’re the only family I have.”
There’s a pause, then that familiar, infuriating laugh. “Lucky Vale,” he says. “You don’t have to apologize for breathing. Or shouting. Or existing like a tornado.”
I smirk despite myself, leaning against the counter. “I don’t know why I do it. Mess everything up.”
“You don’t mess things up. You just… shake them awake. You wake people.”
I laugh. Soft, shaky. “So are we good?”
“You know we are, babe.”
“Then can I tell you about Ethan?”
“The giant lumberjack that you seem to have loose knees for?”
“I don’t have loose knees.”
“Depends, have you fucked him yet, because he wasn’t just bringing you flashlights that day, you know.”
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Banks.”
“What?” he says, all faux innocence. “I’m just saying—men don’t show up with hardware unless they’re hoping to screw something.”
“That’s not—Ethan isn’t like that.”
“Mhm. Sure. And I’m the King of Denmark.”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. But god, I’m smiling. “He kissed me,” I admit, voice small but electric.
Banks goes silent for half a beat. “Ah,” he murmurs. “So that’s why you’re pacing like a feral cat.”
I look down at my bare legs, the hem of my cardigan brushing my thighs as I walk another circle across the kitchen tiles. How well he knows me.
“It was… different,” I say, choosing the word like it might burn me. “Slow. Careful. He didn’t try to take it further.”
“Because he likes you,” Banks replies, simple, obvious—like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
