***
I wake to sunlight bleeding through the blinds and the measured rise and fall of her body curled against mine. She’s still here.
Her cheek’s pressed to my chest, her hand resting right against my heart. There’s something in me that wants to hold this moment still, to not reach for the future or think of the past or the thousand reasons why this shouldn’t be happening.
Eventually, I ease out from beneath her and press a kiss to her temple. She murmurs something incoherent but doesn’t wake, and I let her sleep.
Downstairs, I keep it quiet, muttering soft bribes to Gremlin as she squawks for her kibble, twining between my ankles.
I get bacon in the pan and coffee brewing. Slice some sourdough. Crack eggs into the skillet. There’s a little jar of honey on the counter from the last pull off my hives—only a couple frames, but it’s good. The kind of stuff you don’t hand out casually. I try not to read too much into how good it feels to do this—to make breakfast for someone who stayed.
Her footsteps sound on the stairs just as I’m plating up, and she pads into the kitchen, drowning in one of my T-shirts over leggings. It hangs halfway down her thighs, sleeves swamping her arms. Her hair’s curled from leaving it damp, and her eyes are puffy with sleep.
She’s soft and flushed and fuckinggorgeous.
And when she smiles at me, I feel it in my ribs.
I hand her a mug without a word, which she accepts with both hands, holding my gaze over the rim.
“You’re dangerously good at this.”
“Making coffee?”
“Making it hard to leave.”
The breath that gets caught in my throat turns into a cough, and I thump at my chest before turning back to the skillet.
“Hope you’re hungry…”
She hums and slides onto the stool at the island, tucking one leg under the other. “Starving. But only if I get to try some of this honey.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know that’s backyard-grade premium. You can’t just throw yourself at a man and expect free honey.”
Her eyes glint as she takes a careful sip. “Are you gatekeeping your bees now?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s very… beekeeping-age of you.”
I narrow my eyes. “What the hell is beekeeping-age?”
“You know. Forty plus and emotionally stable.”
“Jesus.”
She grins and reaches for the jar and a teaspoon, popping the lid and dragging the spoon through. I watch as her lips close around it, and her eyes flutter on a moan. “Mmm. It’s good.”
“Told you.”
“Still. I feel like this is the gateway to something. Like you’re five minutes away from ordering a smoker apron and joining a community garden.”
“Gremlin would piss in a community garden for sport.”
“Fair.”
I slide her plate in front of her—eggs scrambled soft, bacon crisp, a thick slice of sourdough. She tears off a piece of crust and dips it directly into the eggs, groaning around the bite. I watch her like a fucking idiot, heart pounding like I haven’t already had her skin under my hands.
“What?” she asks, mouth full.
