I lifted my chin. “If this involves hiking, I’m breaking up with you before the waffles.”
“It doesn’t involve hiking.”
“Horseback riding?”
“No.”
“Public poetry?”
His face twisted. “I’m wounded you’d ask.”
“Men in love become dangerous with metaphors.”
“I’m not reciting poetry on a first date.”
“A first date after a year of fucking in secret—” He rolled his eyes at secret. “Seven months of fighting and rage sex after I defended my honor. Admit it, it sounds ridiculous at this point.”
“Fair clarification.” His mouth brushed mine again. “Still no poetry.”
“That’s probably best for everyone involved.”
“We do need to shower.”
“Separately?”
He looked at me like I’d insulted his family.
I sighed dramatically. “Fine. For water conservation.”
“For the environment,” he agreed.
The shower took longer than it should have for two people who were supposedly in a hurry, and if my neighbors hadn’t been awake before, they were definitely aware of our reconciliation by the time Easton pressed me against the tile, one hand braced above my head, and fucked me until he had my name falling out of his mouth like something he knew better than to say carelessly.
We got clean eventually, though my definition of clean became questionable when I ended up laughing into his shoulder while he tried to rinse conditioner from my braids with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb.
“You are terrible at this,” I told him.
“I am being gentle.”
“You are being slow.”
“Your hair has instructions.”
“My hair has common sense. You have fear.”
“I respect the hair culture.”
I turned under the spray to look at him. Water ran over his face and down his chest, and for one quiet second, the playfulness loosened into something softer. His hands settled on my waist, his thumbs moving once over wet skin.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head, then kissed my forehead. “I like being here in the morning.”
My throat tightened.
I poked his ribs. “That was almost emotionally fluent.”
“I’m taking lessons.”
