He turned at the sound of my socks scuffing.
And stopped.
Actuallystopped.
His eyes dragged over me slowly, openly, starting at my face and taking their time everywhere else, as if he was committing the image to memory for future emergencies. His mouth parted just a little, breath catching, and for a man who prided himself on composure, he looked utterly wrecked.
“Well,” he said finally, voice rough with appreciation. “That’s unfair.”
I grinned and padded closer, the sweatshirt swinging with each step. “Good morning to you too.”
“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” he said, jaw hanging slack. “And my socks.”
“And about to eat your bacon,” I added, peering into the pan. “I assume.”
“You can have anything you want,” he said faintly. “I’m not sure I’ll ever recover from this.”
I laughed and slipped in behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades. He was warm and solid. He stilled instantly, then relaxed back into me as if he’d been waiting his entire life for this moment.
“You vanished,” I murmured.
“I was trying to be productive,” he said, tugging his hand down his face in exasperation. “I failed the moment you walked in.”
I hugged him tighter. He covered my hands with his, thumbs brushing over my fingers in a way that felt grounding and intimate all at once. After a moment, he leaned back just enough to glance down at me.
“You look…” He trailed off, searching. “You look like you belong here.”
My chest did something dangerous at that. I rocked up onto my toes and kissed his shoulder, soft and quick. “Careful, Dr. Vaughn. You might make me snowed-in permanently.”
His laugh rumbled through him, low and delighted. He turned then, finally, setting the mug aside so he could pull me fully into his space. His hands slid easily to my waist, thumbs brushing the hem of the sweatshirt as if he were resisting the urge to do more.
“Oh, don’t you worry, Volkov. I’ve been planning contingencies since you walked through that door,” he said. “Just in case.” Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, wrapped in his clothes and his arms and the quiet certainty of the morning, it felt like the world had narrowed to exactly the right size.
“Come here,” he said, tugging me towards the center of his absurdly large kitchen.
Desmond slid his hands to my waist automatically, as if his body knew what to do before his brain caught up. We stood there, rocking gently back and forth in the middle of the kitchen, no music, no rush, just the quiet creak of the house and the soft hiss of snow outside.
“This is highly impractical,” I murmured as he rested his forehead against mine.
“Mmm,” he agreed. “But you’re doing great.”
We swayed. Slowly. Aimlessly. My cheek brushed his chest; his chin tipped to rest on the top of my head. His thumbs traced absent, grounding circles at my sides. It felt absurd and intimate and so achingly normal it made my throat tight.
Then there was a smell.
It was decidedlynotbacon. Not anymore.
Desmond stiffened. “Oh, no.”
I pulled back just enough to see over his shoulder as a thin curl of smoke rose from the pan. The bacon had gone from sizzling tocharcoalwhile we’d been busy being idiots. He groaned. “We burned it.”
I burst out laughing, the sound bright and uncontrollable. “Youabsolutely did.”
“I got distracted,” he said solemnly. “You distracted me.” He untangled our arms, rushing over to remove the pan from the heat. “But… since there’s no breakfast to worry about anymore.”
In a single motion, he lifted me from the ground and deposited me on the counter opposite the stovetop. An embarrassingly high squeal left my lips as he wormed his way between my legs.
His hands settled on my thighs, warm and steady, pushing the hem of his Yale sweatshirt up just enough to expose the bare skin beneath. I hooked my ankles behind his back, the socks bunching up against his pajama pants as I drew him closer. The kitchen still smelled of charred bacon, but it faded under the heat of his gaze, dark and playful, locking onto mine.
