I look down. “Wait—did you just use me so you didn't have to wear that hideous thing?”
He smirks, completely unbothered. “Don’t know what you're talking about.”
Sure, he doesn't.
“Can we order food now? My stomach's trying to eat itself,” Ezra whines, flopping over the arm of the couch.
Moira gives me a warm, knowing smile before turning her attention to her son. “Ye’ve got fingers, haven't ye? Get that phone out, you're always glued to and order something.”
Elijah scans me and takes my hand. “Come on. Let's get you all cleaned up.”
“I need to take my shoes off first,” I reply, but before I can bend down, he's already crouching and scooping me up bridal-style.
I squeal and wrap my arms around his neck, laughter bubbling out of me. “Elijah!”
“Can’t have you getting my mam’s floor dirty,” he says, unfazed, and starts walking, careful strides taking us up the stairs and along the corridor to the far end of the house.
I catch glimpses of the sprawling interior as we move, forgetting how large this place is. It's understandable after having five boys grow up here, with chaos and memories built into every corner.
I rest my head against his shoulder.
He leads us straight to the bathroom, and my eyes widen at the sheer size of it.
It's enormous—too big to really be called a bathroom. The walls are a smooth slate grey, the tiles a crisp white, and every surface gleams. A massive glass shower dominates one corner, featuring multiple showerheads lining the ceiling and wall. There's a long, sleek bench along one side that looks like it belongs in a spa, not a house.
Holy hell. I’d happily live in here if I could.
He gently lowers me to the floor, shuts the door behind him, and turns me toward him, that familiar concern softening his rugged features.
“What happened? Please tell me you didn't get into a fight.”
“Not exactly a fight,” I utter, shrugging. “I just tackled him. He was saying stupid stuff, and he pissed me off.”
He nods, then his finger lifts to stroke my bottom lip. His touch was gentle. "Not surprised at all. You can be quite feisty when you want to be.”
I can't resist. I press a quick kiss to his finger. “I know.”
His green eyes soften as he studies me as I continue. “He's upset, obviously. I told him we’d keep the lovey-dovey stuff minimal for now, and he wants to apologise for that.”
My eyes fall to his jaw, the bruise already darkening, and I can't stop myself from reaching out, letting my touch trace the shadowed curve.
“It'll take time,” I whisper. “But we don't have to hideusanymore.”
Even saying it aloud feels surreal, but the way his chest rises with a relieved breath tells me he understands. No more sneaking around.
“So…” he grins, lifting my hand in his. “I can hold your hand in public now.”
I dip my chin in agreement, and his grin widens.
“Hug you…” He trails off, inching me impossibly closer, heat radiating from every touch.
“Kiss you.” His lips brush over mine, hands sliding down until they cup beneath my arse.
“Yes,” I breathe, letting the words tumble out as I melt into him.
I watch him sink to his knees, a gesture he loves to do just for me, and I won't lie, I love it. He slips my shoes off, setting them aside, then tackles my pants, which cling stubbornly to my legs. I’m bare from the waist down, and the way he looks at me—so full of desire, so full of love—makes me feel like I could combust right here.
I’m so glad that nobody else gets to be loved by him the way he loves me.
