Rachel rose immediately. “I’ll help her with clothes.”
I stood too, then paused, uncertain. “Should I?—”
Rachel glanced at me. “Stay,” she said, like it was a command and reassurance at the same time. “You said you wouldn’t leave.”
“I won’t,” I said.
She nodded once and went to the bathroom door, knocking softly before slipping inside.
I stayed where I was, mug cooling in my hand, cats arranged like a protective perimeter, listening to the quiet murmur of Rachel’s voice through the door.
It hit me then, sitting in this ridiculous butterfly room with hot cocoa I hadn’t asked for—Frankie didn’t need grand gestures. She didn’t need me to fix her life. She needed me to be what I’d always been, before I let my guilt and fear make me stupid.
She needed me to beme, cradle to fucking grave and still there when she came back out.
“You got it, beautiful,” I promised her even if she couldn’t hear me. “You got me too.”
Chapter
Twenty-Two
FRANKIE
Iwoke up warm.
That was the first thing I noticed—warmth and weight and the unfamiliar comfort of not being alone when I surfaced from sleep. For one terrifying second, my body panicked, trying to remember where I was and what I’d lost.
Then I felt fur.
Tabby was tucked against my stomach, her back pressed into my ribs. Tory was draped across my thighs like she’d claimed the territory overnight. Tiddles was somewhere near my feet, judging by the solid weight pinning the blankets down.
And behind me?—
Coop.
Curled on his side, one arm slung loosely around my waist like it had always belonged there. Rachel was on my other side, her back to mine, one leg thrown over the blanket like she’d fallen asleep mid-argument with the universe.
For a long moment, I just lay there and breathed.
Nothing hurt. Nothing was missing. No one was yelling. No movers. No boxes.
I shifted slightly, careful not to disturb anyone, and felt Coop’s arm tighten. Not possessive. Not pulling me closer. Just…there. Like his body had decided on its own that I mattered and was adjusting accordingly.
I tipped my head back just enough to look at him.
He was awake.
I could tell by the way his eyes were barely open, the way his breathing wasn’t quite even. He hadn’t moved all night. Still in his jeans. Still in his shirt. When he caught me looking, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
He smiled back—and then leaned in and pressed the lightest, quickest kiss to my lips. Barely there. Careful. Sweet.
Then he immediately pulled away.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Morning breath.”
