Someone is missing.
I quietly maneuver out of bed without waking them and follow the distinctive smell of cooking butter to the kitchen.
Judah stands at the stove with his back to me, broad muscles of his shoulders shifting enticingly under his gray shirt as he whisks something in a bowl. A pan sizzles on the burner beside him.
“Good morning,” he says without turning around.
“You didn’t come to the nest last night.” My voice comes out rougher than intended, still tangled up in sleep.
Judah’s shoulders tense for a fraction of a second before he glances back at me. “Didn’t want to presume.”
“Presume what?”
He returns his attention to the stove, but I don’t miss the flush on his cheeks. “Considering I only just got back last night, I technically haven’t been invited into your nest yet.”
I cross the kitchen in four steps and wrap my arms around his waist from behind.
He goes completely still.
I press my cheek against the space between his shoulder blades, breathing in the familiar scent of salt and cedar that’s been embedded in my memory since that first breakfast at his house in Harmony Harbor. His heart pounds against my ear, steady but still a little faster than it should be.
“You are always welcome in the nest.” I squeeze tighter, feeling his breath catch. “That’s the whole point of it being so big.”
He clears his throat nervously, but I sense the smile in his voice. “As long as you’re sure.”
“Of course, I’m sure.” I release him just enough to turn him around, my hands finding the worn cotton of his shirt. “No more of this ‘didn’t want to presume’ nonsense. If you want to be in the nest, you come to the nest. If you want to sleep alone sometimes, that’s fine too. But don’t stay away because you’re worried about not being wanted. You are always wanted.”
He turns in my arms, and I instinctively rise on my toes to kiss him, the move so smooth that it feels like I’ve been doing it for years.
The kiss is soft and gentle. I taste the lingering bitter sweetness of his morning coffee as I trace my tongue along his.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “No more sleeping in a guest room.”
“Good.” I step back and eye the stove with renewed interest. “Now. What are you making?”
“Eggs. That okay?”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Depends. Are your omelets better than mine? Because if they are, I might take it personally.”
Judah laughs. “Maybe I’ll make pancakes instead.”
“That’s probably wise.”
He shakes his head, still smiling, and returns his attention to the stove.
I turn to the coffee machine, which might be the thing I love most about Atticus being over-the-top in everything he does. A gleaming beast of Italian engineering, I’ve only just figured out how to use it without spraying steamed milk all over the counter.
Now, a homemade caramel latte a day is doing wonders for my mood.
I take a sip and look up to find Judah watching me.
My hand lifts self-consciously to touch my face, assuming I’ve got an oatmilk mustache.”Everything okay?”
“I need you to know something.”
I set down my coffee at the seriousness in my tone and give him my full attention. “What’s that?”
He reaches out, fingertips brushing a strand of hair back from my face. The touch is feather-light, almost reverent.
