Monty.
I don’t need to look.I feel him the way you feel a door close behind you.He moves like he’s constantly tracking.Like there’s an invisible map in his head and every exit is marked.
“You okay?”His voice is low, careful, but there’s an edge under it that doesn’t belong in a house with designer lamps and a lake view.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and snort, because if I don’t laugh, I might start crying and then we’ll have to live with that memory forever.“Define okay.”
Monty’s mouth twitches.He hands me a paper towel without making a big deal out of it, like throwing up in a showroom kitchen is just another Tuesday, and then he pours me a glass of ginger sparkling water like it’s a cure and a command.
I stare at it.“Has Benji visited already?”
“Yep.”Monty sets the glass into my hand like he expects me to obey.Which is ...yes.That is exactly what he expects.“He came for a couple of hours, walked the rooms, and made a list.”
“This house is going to run on efficiency,” I mutter, taking a careful sip, “and I don’t know how to live in that.”
Monty leans in, kisses my nose, and then—like he’s possessed by someone playful—he winks.
He fucking winks.
I freeze mid-sip, because Monty does not wink.Monty does not flirt.Monty does not offer me cute.Monty offers me safety, blunt truths, and the occasional look that says he would burn the world down if it touched me.
So this?This is suspicious.
“Everything okay, big guy?”I manage, voice thin with disbelief.
His eyes shift toward the kitchen entry.“Indoor pool.”
It isn’t a suggestion.It’s an instruction dressed in a neutral tone.
Before I can respond, Callaway appears like my thoughts summoned him.He’s changed out of his moving-day clothes into a soft T-shirt and gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips like he has no idea what he’s doing to my brain.Like he doesn’t know I’m one fragile moment away from biting him just to prove I’m still capable of making choices.
He looks comfortable.Domestic.Too real.
And my body, traitor that it is, remembers that night on the couch.
It remembers hands with dirty words and praise because my reactions gave it willingly.It remembers my own voice breaking, my own need spilling out of me like it had been trapped there for years.It remembers how I shattered into stardust and they put me back together with praise and love.
Since then, there’s been ...nothing much between us.
Chaste kisses.Soft touches.Space.And a lot of restraint.
My stomach rolls again, but this time it’s not nausea.It’s heat, sharp and sudden, low in my belly, and I hate myself for it because I’m standing in my brand-new kitchen with puke in the sink and I’m still thinking about the way Callaway’s sweatpants sit on his hips.
Hormones, I decide.Blame the hormones.Hormones are a valid scapegoat.Hormones don’t require me to admit I want him.
Or both of them.
“Before you say anything,” I warn, lifting the mug like it’s a weapon, “if you tell me this house came with a panic room, I’m moving back to the apartment.”
“It came with a panic room,” Callaway says immediately, bright as sunlight, and then adds, “but you can’t move back because we already returned the keys.”
I glare at him so hard my face might cramp.
His mouth quirks like he’s proud of himself.Golden retriever energy with a millionaire bank account and absolutely no fear.“But I won’t tell you where it is.”
Monty makes a low sound—almost a laugh, nearly a growl—and something in me eases for half a second.
I hate that.I hate that relief is even possible, because relief is how you get careless.Relief is how you get hurt.
