Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new conversations, new revelations. But tonight, wrapped in Declan's embrace, I allow myself to simply be. To feel. To fall.
30
JADE
The sheets are still warm when Declan slips out of bed.
I roll into the space he left behind, burying my face in the pillow, inhaling the clean, masculine scent that still clings to the linen. My body aches in places I didn't know could ache, the kind of ache that's wanted.
I close my eyes for a moment and let the memory roll through me like the tide: the weight of him, the taste of his mouth, the way his hands gripped my hips like he never wanted to let go.
I don't know how long we slept. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. But the soft sounds coming from the kitchen, the clink of a pan, the hiss of something on the stove, draw me out of bed and into the pool house's open living area.
Declan is shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of loose black sweatpants that hang low on his hips. He stands at the stove, flipping something in a pan with effortless competence, his back to me. His tattoos are more muted inthis light, shadows stretched across his skin. The scars are more visible now too. I trace one with my eyes, just above his ribs, and wonder again who or what put it there.
He doesn't hear me approach. I just stand there, watching him.
This man, who once barely spoke more than three words in a row, had his mouth on every part of me last night. He was filthy and focused and relentless, and now he's making eggs like he's been doing it every morning.
"How do you want your eggs?" he asks without turning around.
I blink. "You knew I was here?"
His voice is low, rough. "I wouldn't be a good bodyguard if I didn't know."
I cross my arms, leaning against the counter. "Scrambled's fine."
He glances back at me, just once. Eyes sweeping over the shirt I borrowed from him and falling past my thighs, barely hiding the fact that I'm still not wearing anything underneath.
He doesn't say anything about it. Just smirks, adjusts himself, and turns back to the stove.
There's something easy about this. Something that should feel strange but doesn't. No awkwardness. No regret. Just... comfort. Like this was always going to happen. Like we've done it a hundred timesbefore.
He plates the eggs and sets them on the counter just as the front door swings open.
Mateo steps inside, looking fresh and smug and completely unprepared for what he's about to walk into, until he sees us.
He stops.
His eyes go from me, in Declan's shirt, to Declan, barefoot and his hair still tousled from sleep. The eggs. The silence.
Then he grins.
"Well," he says, dropping his keys on the table. "Fucking finally."
The tension in my shoulders releases so suddenly I almost sag against the counter.
Declan's expression remains guarded, though I notice his stance relax marginally. And he reaches for another fork, starting to set a third place at the counter.
Mateo walks toward us, arms crossed, his tone teasing but his eyes sharp. "I thought I was going to have to start charging Declan rent for all that unresolved tension. You two have been dancing around each other for weeks."
Declan turns off the stove. His eyes meet mine, and I see something new there. Relief and happiness.
I open my mouth, not even sure what I'm about to say. Apologize? Explain?
"So... you're really okay with this?" I ask Mateo, still trying to believe how easy he's making it look.
Mateo just waves a hand.
