“I do not talk in my sleep.”
“You do. You said, and I quote, ‘harder’ and then something about my hands that I’m pretty sure violates several workplace conduct policies.”
Her eyes went wide. Her face went red. “I did not?—”
“You absolutely did. Then you made this sound—” I demonstrated, a low hum in the back of my throat. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Jack Specter, I did not say that—” She stopped, mortification washing over her face. “What did I actually say?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see how fast I could make you turn that exact shade of red.”
She shoved my shoulder hard. “You’re the worst.”
I leaned in to kiss her. She turned her head at the last second, and my mouth caught her cheek instead.
“Pauline.”
“We haven’t brushed our teeth.”
I pulled back to look at her. “Are you serious right now?”
“I’m very serious. Morning breath is real, Jack.”
“I don’t care about morning breath.”
“That’s because you can’t smell your own.” She was trying not to laugh. “I care about my morning breath. I care about your dignity. This is an act of kindness.”
“An act of—” I stared at her. “You’re killing me.”
“I’m saving you from a biological hazard.”
“I think I can handle your morning breath.”
“Your confidence is admirable and wildly misplaced.” She wriggled out from under me, and I let her go even though everyinstinct said to pull her back. “Bathroom. Then you can kiss me all you want.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“Please do.” She paused at the bathroom door. “You’re coming too, by the way.”
“Am I?”
“Unless you want to test that morning breath theory.” She raised an eyebrow. “In which case, I’ll be happy to prove my point.”
I was up and following her before she finished the sentence.
We stood at the double sinks, her at one, me at the other, but somehow drifting closer—bumping elbows, brushing hips, finding excuses to crowd into each other’s space even though there was plenty of room. She caught my eye in the mirror and grinned around her toothbrush, and I realized once again that I wanted us. Like this. Every single day.
Ordinary moments that felt extraordinary because she was in them.
“You’re staring again,” she said, rinsing her mouth.
“Can’t help it.”
I finished brushing and turned to her. “Better?”
She stepped closer, close enough that I could see the water droplets still clinging to her chin, the way her eyes had gone darker. “Much better.”
I pulled her to me before we even made it back to the bedroom, her back against the hallway wall, my mouth on hers because waiting another second felt impossible. She tasted like mint and morning and everything I’d been wanting for seven years.
