“I like waking up early,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. “I get to lay with you in my arms.”
I smile against his skin. “Do you rehearse that shit or does it just come to you?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, his hand slipping to my waist. “Natural talent.”
I stretch beneath the covers, content and comfortable. “You’re staying in bed with me all day, right?”
He hesitates just long enough for me to know I won’t like what’s coming.
“I need to stop by Monarch,” he says gently, smoothing his hand over my hip like it might soften the blow.
I groan, dramatic and immediate, and yank the blanket over my head. “Absolutely not. Tell your club you're dead.”
“They’d probably believe it,” he mutters. “It’s been two weeks since I stepped foot inside.”
“Pretty sure it’s not falling apart without you.” I peek outfrom under the blanket, giving him my best unimpressed glare. “Pretty sure your DNA is literally stitched into the furniture.”
He laughs, unbothered. “That place also happens to fund our ridiculously expensive espresso beans and your growing collection of black silk.”
“Ugh.” I sigh. “Fine. Go play boss man.”
He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be back before you start missing me.”
“I already miss you.”
He grins. “Then I’ll make it quick.”
He gets up, moves through his morning routine like something out of a damn commercial—dark slacks, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, gun clipped at his side. It shouldn’t be hot. But it is. And I’m fully unrepentant about the way I ogle him as he buttons up.
When he leans down to kiss me goodbye, it’s lingering. A soft pull at my bottom lip, a whisper of a promise behind his teeth.
“Stay out of trouble,” he says against my mouth.
“No promises,” I respond.
He disappears with a wink and a warning, and I wait—just long enough for the echo of his footsteps to fade—before I move.
I slip from bed quietly, the hardwood cool against my bare feet as I make my way across the suite. Enzo’s scent clings to my skin—salt and spice. I don’t bother putting on a robe.
My duffel sits tucked against the wall of the closet, weathered and almost empty now, but the secret it carries is untouched. I kneel beside it, my pulse steady but heavy, fingers searching for the tiny zipper hidden beneath the lining—the one I stitched in myself years ago. A hiding place born not of necessity, but of impulse. Of obsession.
The tests are still there. Placed in neat, careful rows like contraband. Three different brands. Early results, digitals, the ones with thin pink lines that always blur if you stare too long. Accuracy was never the point. It’s about control. Or maybesurrender. About the ache of possibility, no matter how far-fetched.
I choose one without thinking, letting my fingers close around the cardboard box at random. This one has the pink lines that take a full minute to form. The kind that stretches sixty seconds into eternity, holding your breath hostage while you count every tick like it might change your life.
In the bathroom, I unwrap it. There’s no rush. My fingers are steady—practiced. The motions have become ritual, my own strange liturgy. I follow the instructions, replace the cap, and lay it flat on the counter.
And then I stare at it. Like I always do.
The truth is, I don’t need the result. I already know it will be negative. I’ve known every single time. Sometimes, I wasn’t even sleeping with anyone when I tested. Whole stretches of my life where I wasn’t touched, wasn’t kissed, wasn’t claimed—and still I’d find myself here, waiting for a plastic stick to tell me something I already knew.
It’s odd. I know that. Even in my own head, it sounds absurd. But it’s not the answer that matters. It’s the act itself. The quiet suspension. The fantasy. The rush that comes from pretending, just for a moment, that life inside me might be real.
And that possibility, once so out of reach, but now a tangible thing, is enough to set my skin buzzing and my lungs tight.
I already feel it in the way my body aches, in the way his cum still lingers inside me, a mark of being claimed. My thighs press together instinctively, trying to recreate the pressure, the stretch of him, the sharp snap of his hips when he growls about filling me. God, I love that part. The aftermath. The weight of his body collapsing over mine. The lazy drag of his fingers down my stomach, his voice low and possessive, whispering promises—gonna fuck a baby into you, Angel. Gonna watch your belly grow with what I put there.
I bite my lip until it stings. Because with Enzo, it’s never just sex. Not for me. It’s a need that runs deeper, something damnnear primal. I crave the heat of him, the heaviness, the raw way he takes me. But more than that, I crave the possibility. The fragile chance that maybe this time, my body will listen. Maybe this time, there will be more than aching muscles and stretched skin. Maybe I won’t just be pretending.
