He nods. Eats. Watches me work.
After a moment his foot hooks around my ankle under the table. Just rests there.
No glance up. No acknowledgment. Just the quiet, certain weight of it, like he's done this a thousand times and intends to do it a thousand more.
I don't look up. But I hook my foot around his in return.
This. This exact thing. Two people working in the same room. Comfortable silence. Leftovers and spreadsheets and the particular intimacy of not needing to perform.
That's it.
That's the wholething.
April 10 | Cedar Falls | Home 6AM
West is asleep on his stomach, one arm thrown across my side of the bed, breathing slow and even in the dark.
I slide under the sheets with a specific intention and zero patience.
His body registers my presence before his brain does—muscles tensing, breathing changing rhythm. I kiss his shoulder blade. Trail my mouth down his spine. My hand slides lower.
He makes a sound into the pillow that's half-groan, half-question.
"Morning," I say against his skin.
"Jane—what are you—"
"Shh."
My hand wraps around him. He's already half-hard, getting harder with every stroke. His hips shift involuntarily.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
I take my time. Learn the sounds he makes when he's barely awake and I'm deliberately wrecking him. The specific way his breath catches when I use my thumb. The low curse when I lean down and use my mouth.
"Jane—wait—"
I don't wait.
His hand finds my hair. Not controlling. Just holding on.
"Come here," he rasps.
"Busy."
"Jane."
The command in his voice does something to my entire nervous system.
I release him. Look up.
He flips me so fast my brain takes a second to catch up. Suddenly I'm on my back, his weight pinning me down, his mouth on mine—hungry, desperate, the kiss of a manwho's done being passive.
"My turn," he says against my lips.
His hand slides between my thighs. Finds me already wet.
