No wedding ring.
“We can't,” I protest. “It's one in the morning.”
A smirk curves his mouth. “Good to know you can tell the time.”
Sarcastic ass.
He waits anyway, fingers flexing once before he reaches for me and pulls me up. I stumble, completely caught off guard, and my chest collides with him. His warmth hits me first, steady and solid, and my hands fly instinctively to his stomach—strong, firm, muscles soft in all the right places. My fingers brush over the faint line of his abs, and heat flares through me, sudden and alarming.
He doesn't move. Not a millimetre. Just lets me press against him, like he's permitting me to touch him without saying a word. The tension deepens between us, my pulse hammering out of control.
I blink, trying to think, trying to pull away, but my skin is on fire, my chest and thighs suddenly aware of him in ways that have nothing to do with gravity. His scent is just all… him. It wraps around me, and I know he notices the little shiver that travels up my spine.
The last thing I want to do is move, but it can’t happen.
It's so fucking wrong.
I take a small step back, my heart still racing. The way his eyes darken shows me that I'm not the only one who felt the tension. He's incredibly tall—so much so that I don't even reach his shoulders. With his head tilted down and dark hair falling over his forehead, I catch glimpses of his blue eyes. Flecks of grey flash in the light from the TV, resembling tiny storms trapped in his gaze. Being this close makes me want to stare forever.
I bet they’d look even prettier in the sun.
I lick my lips and clear my throat, trying to break the spell—but failing.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice quiet. My stomach is doing somersaults.
“Let me grab something to throw on. And you,” he adds, tilting his head at me. “Wear a jumper. We’re going to McDonald's.”
“I’m fine like this.” I brush off his instruction, forgetting where he said he's taking me.
He gives me that look—the one that saysDon't even think about arguing with me.
“Cover up.”
I glance down at my Iron Man pyjamas—the full, modest ones my dad bought, not the skimpy pair I usually wear. “Cover what?” I snap, irritation creeping in.
He points at my chest.
He's joking, right?
I huff. “It's just a bit of cleavage. We’re going to McDonald's, not a bloody sex club.”
Elijah hums, and I freeze as he lightly tugs at the low neckline. “Too low for my liking. Now cover it up… or I’ll do it for you. And don't think I won't.” He winks, taps my nose and strides away from the room, leaving me pissed off and flustered all in one.
Dickhead.
“I can't believe you made me put your hoodie on—it's huge.”
I slump into my seat, practically swallowed by the fabric, as Elijah unloads the food he ordered for both of us. Multiple burgers, bags of chips, two chocolate brownies, mozzarella bites, and a McFlurry. I just take a cautious sip of my coffee, silently wondering how he plans to put all of that away.
“You look cute,” he says, setting a burger in front of me.
I tap my foot impatiently. “I look ridiculous.”
He leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “You look beautiful. Now eat.”
Beautiful? The thought nearly chokes me. I shouldn't be too surprised because I look like the woman he loves. A version who wears less makeup, doesn't have fake lips and actually has a nice personality.
“Do you want me to feed you?” His hand dips into the chips, lifting one toward my lips. The salty smell makes my stomach betray me with a quiet growl.
