I was a squatter, a stray, a failed son and a worse friend. But here, in this bed, with Rawley wrapped around me like a promise, I felt something close to home.
He shifted, then sat up, hauling me with him so I straddled his lap. My thighs squeezed the warm muscle of his hips, and the look in his eyes made my stomach flip.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“For what?”
He grinned, flashing teeth. “Breakfast. Unless you want something else.”
I ducked my head, hair hiding my face, but he caught my chin and tilted it up. The rough pad of his thumb traced the mark on my neck.
“Looks good on you,” he said, voice low.
I swallowed, heat blooming in my face. “It hurts.”
“Good. You’ll remember who did it, then.”
I rolled my eyes, but he kissed me before I could say more. It wasn’t the bruising, desperate thing from last night—it was soft, almost careful. Like he was afraid I might crack open if he pushed too hard.
I kissed him back, tasting morning breath and the ghost of coffee from the day before. My hands tangled in the short stubble at the back of his head. I liked the way it felt—tough, but with a little give.
When he finally let me go, I was grinning too hard to pretend I was annoyed.
“Get dressed,” he said, smacking my ass. “We got work to do.”
“Work?”
He rolled out of bed, naked and unashamed, then pulled on a pair of battered jeans. “Need to check the perimeter, see if that fence is still standing after last night’s wind. Might have to mend it. And the feed bins need refilling.”
I groaned, but it was for show.
He dug out a t-shirt from the pile on the chair, then tossed one at my head. “You coming or not?”
I pulled the shirt on, still warm from his skin, and followed him to the bathroom. He didn’t bother with privacy—just pissed into the toilet with the door wide open, then washed his hands at the sink while I tried not to stare at the way his back flexed with every movement.
When he was done, he turned and found me hovering in the hallway. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I muttered, but couldn’t stop myself from grinning.
He grinned back. “You’re easy to read, Jojo.”
I stuck my tongue out, then ducked past him to use the bathroom myself. When I came downstairs, he’d already started a pot of coffee and was wrestling a carton of eggs.
The kitchen looked brighter with him in it—like the light knew where it belonged and angled itself to catch the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the silver in his hair. He moved with a confidence that made even the most boring chores look purposeful.
I set the table, stacking plates and forks in the same neat lines I remembered from my grandparents’ farmhouse.
Rawley caught me lining up the napkins and smirked. “You got a little OCD, don’t you?” he teased.
I shrugged, cheeks going hot. “Just like things straight.”
He poured the coffee, then set a mug in front of me. “Sit,” he ordered. “Eat.”
I obeyed, mostly because I liked the way he said it. He piled my plate with eggs and toast, then sat across from me, elbows braced on the table.
We ate in silence, but it wasn’t the awkward kind. More like we were both building up steam for the day ahead.
When the plates were empty, he reached across and snagged my wrist. The contact was casual, but I felt it in my teeth.
