But I don't move.
Neither does he.
We just lay there in comfortable, perfect silence, breathing in sync, his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my ear.
Finally, he shifts slightly beneath me, the steady rhythm of his breathing changing just enough for me to notice. His large hand, which had been tracing those lazy, hypnotic patterns on my shoulder, stills completely. The sudden absence of movement makes me acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch.
"I have a tactical proposal," he says, his voice carrying that peculiar blend of formality and intensity that means he's been thinking about something serious.
I tilt my head up to look at him, pulling back just enough to lock eyes. One eyebrow arches automatically, a habit I've developed specifically for dealing with his more outlandish ideas.
"A tactical proposal?" I repeat slowly, letting the words hang in the air between us. "That sounds ominous. And also very you. Most people would just say they want to talk about something."
He sits up slowly, keeping me tucked against his side, and gestures toward the wall between our two shops.
"That wall," he says thoughtfully, his business voice replacing the possessive rumble. "It divides us unnecessarily."
I follow his gaze, my mind already racing ahead.
"You want to knock it down."
"I want to knock it down." He looks down at me, his expression serious. "Combine the two spaces. Your bakery in the front, my butcher shop in the back, a shared kitchen in the middle. We could offer custom charcuterie boards with your pastries. Savory and sweet in one location. A true partnership."
"That's..."
"Insane," he finishes. "I know. But think about it, Quinn. We balance each other. Your precision and my strength. Your sugar and my smoke. We could build something entirely new together."
I stare at the wall, imagining it gone, imagining the two spaces flowing together seamlessly, imagining a future where we don't just share an alley but an entire life.
"I'll need control of the aesthetic," I say slowly. "No severed pig heads visible from the customer seating area."
"Agreed."
"And I get final say on the music."
"As long as the bass does not disrupt my sausage casings."
"And you have to promise to stop leaving raw meat for me as a romantic gesture."
He grins, his tusks glinting in the pale morning light filtering through the window, those silver rings catching and throwing off little sparks of brightness.
"I will leave it on our doorstep instead," he says, the words deliberate and pleased, like he's savoring the taste of them.
Our doorstep.
Not mine. Not his. Ours.
The words settle into my chest like warm honey, slow and thick and sweet, spreading through my ribs and wrapping around my heart. They feel warm and right and absolutely, completely, bone-shakingly terrifying in a way that makes my pulse skip and my breath catch.
"This is crazy," I whisper, the confession barely audible even to my own ears.
"Yes." He cups my face gently, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "But so is falling in love with the angry woman who threw my courtship steak back in my face. And yet here we are."
Here we are.
I take a deep breath and lock eyes with him.
"Okay."
