This doesn’t feel like a fling. It doesn’t even feel casual.
This feels likebelonging.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
31
HUNTER
The coffee pot is already full when I stumble into the kitchen, shirtless, hungover, and maybe still just a little bit drunk from the wine, whiskey, and whatever the hell that punch was last night.
I rub a hand over my face, pour a mug, and freeze.
Through the back windows, out on the deck, I see her.
Faith.
Wrapped in an oversized cardigan, legs curled up beneath her on a wicker chair, sipping coffee like she was made to be there. The early light paints her in soft golds and pinks, and for a second, my heart actually stops.
And then I see it.
Ten years from now.
Same deck. Same coffee pot. Same soft morning light—but there are little feet padding around the kitchen. Crumbs on the counter. Her voice calling from outside.
A life.
Our life.
My chest goes tight.
I know I shouldn’t tell her any of this. Not right now. Not after everything. She’s been crystal clear about her boundaries. Friends with benefits, summer fling, no strings. No promises.
But still. God, I want to tell her.
Instead, I grab my mug, push open the door, and take the seat beside her.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
She startles just slightly, then offers a small smile. “Oh. Morning.”
“Morning.”
She glances out at the still lake. “It was a fun night.”
“It was.”
“I’m looking forward to today.”
“Slowpoking on the lake,” I nod. “You fish?”
“Never have.”
“Well, that’s what we’re gonna do. You, me, and a couple of stubborn-ass pontoons.”
She sips her coffee again, then turns to me, eyes narrowed in amusement. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be like this.”
“Like what?”
