‘I need you, Tate. Not Ryan. Not a memory of him.You.’
The way she felt. The warmth of her, the way she pulled me closer when trying to be careful, the way she said my name like it meant something specific in her mouth.
It did.
The way she came apart, completely unguarded, her hands in my hair and my name on her lips. It was a privilege to be the person someone trusted enough to let go with.
Never felt that before.
Not once.
Standing at the window with the coffee warming both hands, I also think about Tracker and the last real conversation that had nothing to do with club business. Sitting at this same kitchen counter late one night with a beer between us, him quiet for a long time before saying, almost to himself, ‘She’s it for me, Tate. She’s the one.’
I understand it differently now.
I wait for the guilt to arrive, but what comes instead is something quieter and more honest. He would have wanted this. He asked me to look after her. And maybe this, whatever this is becoming, is exactly what that looks like.
The shower runs about forty minutes later. I refill my coffee and give her the time she needs.
She appears in the kitchen doorway ten minutes after that.
Her hair is still damp, wearing one of my shirts that falls to mid-thigh. She stops when she sees me at the window, and something moves across her face that has nothing careful in it.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
The morning sits between us, warm, new, and slightly terrifying but not terrifying at all.
“Hey.” Her voice is still soft from sleep.
“Hey.”
She crosses to the coffee machine and reaches for the white mug with the chip in the handle. I watch her move through the kitchen and feel something tighten at the sight of it. She is wearing my shirt… in my kitchen… the morning after. Therightness of that is something with no adequate framework and no point pretending otherwise.
She turns with her coffee and leans against the counter across from me.
We look at each other.
“How did you sleep?”
A small smile moves across her face. “Better than I have in months.” Then quieter, “You?”
“Same.”
She tucks a piece of damp hair behind her ear and looks down at her coffee for a moment. It’s the look she has when she is deciding something, and then she looks back up. “Are we going to talk about it?” she asks.
“Do you want to?”
She thinks about it honestly. “I don’t want to analyze it. I just want to make sure you didn’t wake up this morning and regret it.”
Crossing the kitchen, I set the mug down on the counter beside her and look at her properly. “Do I look like a man who regrets it?”
She looks up, those blue eyes searching, and whatever she finds there seems to be what she needs because the slight tension around her mouth dissolves, and she exhales slowly. “No. You don’t.”
“Good.” Reaching out, I run a thumb across her cheek and feel her lean into it slightly, her eyes closing for just a second. Something moves through me at that, the same thing that moved last night, except bigger now, less manageable. I lean down and press my lips to hers, slowly and softly.
She makes a small sound against my mouth, and I pull back.
Because if I don’t pull back right now, I’m not going to, and she deserves a morning that isn’t me coming at her witheverything I’m carrying before she’s even finished her first coffee.
