I let her.
Of course I let her.
At this point, she could probably take half my closet, my coffee, my time, and my ability to think straight, then smile at me like she had done nothing wrong, and I’d just sit there letting it happen like a man who had never once heard the phrase self-preservation.
Which was irritating.
Because I wasn’t usually that guy.
I didn’t drift. I didn’t stumble into things. I moved with intent, and every decision I made had structure behind it. Hockey taught me that early. You didn’t survive on instinct alone. You survived by reading the ice, anticipating pressure, knowing when to hold back, and knowing when to fucking hit.
Pip thinking she had backed me into some clean little friends-with-benefits agreement was almost cute.
Almost.
She could call it physical if that made her feel safer. She could dress it up as attraction, chemistry, benefits, no feelings, no expectations, no hockey-girlfriend bullshit, and whatever other terms she needed to keep herself from bolting. I’d let her. I’d even agree out loud because I wasn’t stupid enough to argue with a woman who had one hand on the door and fear pretending to be logic in her eyes.
But she had given me access.
That was what mattered.
She could pretend the label changed the reality, but I knew better. She had looked at me in her kitchen like she wanted to be devoured and then made rules because the wanting scared her. She had let me kiss her. Let me lift her. Let me eat her untilshe came apart with my name in her throat, and now she was sitting beside me sipping my coffee like my entire bloodstream didn’t still remember the taste of her.
Benefits.
Sure, Pip.
We’d call it that for now.
“Tell me about your mom?” I asked carefully, mostly because if I kept thinking about the way she’d looked on her bed with her hands in my hair, I was going to have to pull over and rethink every choice that had led me to a public road.
The softness stayed on her face even then. “She was mostly a homemaker,” Pip said quietly. “But she had a side hustle.”
“Oh yeah?”
“She owned a little coffee drive-through called The Early Morning Grind.”
I laughed immediately. “That’s actually adorable.”
“I know.” She smiled faintly at herself while looking out the window. “It was this tiny little portable coffee trailer thing. We all worked there growing up. Mom would bake muffins and croissants and cookies at like four in the morning, and we’d help package everything before school.”
“That sounds fucking wholesome.”
She laughed softly. “It kind of was.”
I pictured a younger version of her in that trailer, probably half-awake and mouthy even then, flour on her cheek, hair messy, snapping at one of her brothers for stealing a muffin, and instantly had to stop myself from smiling like an idiot.
Too late.
She glanced over. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true with your face.”
“My face is innocent.”
“Your face is expensive and suspicious.”
