Shepherd’s eyes soften and he nods. “If I have anything to say about it, yes. It’s all I’ve wanted since the very first day I met you.”
I swallow hard, fighting the instinct to deflect with humor or sarcasm. “Even after everything I told you last night? Even knowing how messed up I am?”
“Especially after last night,” he says without hesitation. “And you’re not messed up, Sutton. You’re healing. There’s a difference. And for the record, I’d rather be messed up and in pain with you than perfectly healthy with anyone else.” His eyes hold mine, unflinching and sincere.
“I think I can live with that,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat.
His smile does things to me—dangerous, wonderfulthings—that make my chest tight and my head light. I’m still not used to this, to someone looking at me like I’m everything. Like I’m worth the pain and the complications.
“Good,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “Because I’m not going anywhere, now lean over here and kiss me so I don’t have to move my body.”
I lean forward and press my lips to his forehead first. The gesture floods me with a tenderness that surprises me. When did I become this person? This woman who gives affection freely, who doesn’t calculate every touch for potential threat? I trace a path downward, brushing my lips against the bridge of his nose, the slight stubble on his cheek that scratches pleasantly against my sensitive skin. Finally, I reach his lips—warm and soft and waiting—and something inside me unravels as he sighs into my mouth, his breath mingling with mine.
“I’ll make breakfast,” I say, carefully extracting myself from his arms. “You stay put.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He settles back against the pillows, watching me with those warm eyes that see too much.
In his kitchen, I move with a familiarity that should scare me. I know where the coffee is, which cabinet holds the mugs, how he likes his eggs. When I open the refrigerator, I’m struck by how full it is. All this time I assumed most men barely kept condiments in stock let alone other foods, but Shepherd’s fridge is packed with fresh vegetables, eggs, and all sorts of ingredients that speak of someone who cares about what goes into his body. It shouldn’t surprise me—he’s a professional athlete, after all—but there’s something intimate about seeing the contents of his refrigerator, about knowing what fuels him.
I arrange the eggs, butter, and veggies on the counter and then hunt for a cutting board. My hands fall into the familiar rhythm of breakfast preparation, a quiet dance of chopping and whisking that anchors me while my thoughts drift elsewhere.
Last night changed everything. I told him the ugliest parts of my past, the broken pieces I’ve kept hidden for so long, and he’s still here. Still looking at me like I’m something precious. The weight of that terrifies me almost as much as it comforts me.
I’m beating eggs when strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, and I startle briefly before relaxing into his touch.
“I thought I told you to stay put,” I scold, but there’s no heat in my voice.
“I didn’t like being that far away from you,” he says, his chin resting on my shoulder as he watches me work. “Plus, I’m not completely helpless.”
I feel his warmth against my back, solid and reassuring, and I have to resist the urge to lean into him fully, aware of his injuries. “Your ribs might disagree with that assessment.”
“My ribs can deal with it,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. “I needed to be near you.”
The simple honesty in his voice makes my heart flutter. It’s still strange to me, this feeling of being wanted—not for what I can give or do, but just for being me.
“Well, since you’re up,” I say, trying to sound stern despite the way my body responds to his touch, “you can make the toast.”
“Yes, chef.” He gives me a gentle squeeze before releasing me to grab the bread from the counter.
We work in companionable silence for a few minutes, moving around each other in the kitchen with an ease that feels both new and familiar. I sneak glances at him as he moves, noting the careful way he holds himself, the slight wince he tries to hide when he reaches for the bread. It makes my heart ache to see him in pain, especially knowing he’s pushing through it just to be near me.
“Stop looking at me like I’m about to keel over,” he sayswithout turning around, and I wonder how he always seems to know what I’m thinking.
“I wasn’t,” I lie, focusing on the eggs I’m whisking.
“You were.” He glances over his shoulder, his smile gentle. “I can feel your eyes drilling holes into my back.”
“Fine,” I admit, pouring the eggs into the heated pan. “I just don’t want you making yourself worse because you’re too stubborn to rest.”
He turns to face me, leaning against the counter. “Coming from the queen of stubborn, that’s quite the statement.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Pot, kettle.”
“Exactly.” He moves closer, watching as I stir the eggs. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”
The casual way he says it—like we’re already an established unit, a team—sends a flutter through me. “Yeah I guess we are.”
I finish up the eggs as Shepherd pulls two plates from the cabinet to my left. Once plated, I pull out one of the stools from the kitchen island for Shepherd and then one for myself. The first couple bites we take are in a shared silence, both of us appreciating the morning nourishment.
