Page 70 of Slapshot Bride

“Thank you,” she says when we are almost home. “For the camera.”

“You’re welcome.” I keep my eyes on the road because I know if I look at her, I wouldn’t be able to resist it. Kissing her lips.

“The shooting out there… It felt like something that was mine.” She turns the camera over in her hands. “I forgot what that felt like. Having something that was just… mine.”

“Glad you loved it, Riley.”

The rest of the evening is quiet.

We eat. She showers and sits on the couch with the camera in her hands, scrolling through what she shot, occasionally smiling at the screen in a way I'm going to think about for a long time after.

Later that night, when she climbs into my bed, I’m still awake. I wrap my arms around her and pull the covers over us. Her soft body settles against mine, and her lips find mine in the dimly lit room.

They move against mine slowly, and her fingers trace my torso, like she’s memorizing every curve.

“Thank you for today,” she murmurs against my lips.

“Anything for you, baby.” If only she knew the truth behind those words.

14

RILEY

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Iwake up at noon.

The sun has already moved past the window, and the bed is still warm where Easton was five hours ago. The house is quiet, but instead of making me feel alone, the silence settles around me in a way that feels peaceful.

I stretch beneath the covers and roll onto my back, my eyes drifting to the empty pillow beside me.

Somewhere along the way, this became normal.

We never talked about it. There was no conversation where we decided I would start sleeping in Easton’s bed instead of the guest room, no moment where either of us suggested that this should become an every-night thing. It just happened.

And then it kept happening.

I can’t remember the last time I fell asleep alone.

And most nights, we have sex.

God, do we have sex.

My lips curve as memories from last night make my skin warm beneath the sheets, but it isn’t only that. If it were only the sex, maybe I could put what’s happening between us into a neat little box and stop thinking about it so much.

It’s everything around it.

Easton asking if I’ve eaten. Listening when I talk about photography like every word matters, asking questions and remembering things I mentioned days ago. Buying me clothes when I had nothing of my own, then going out of his way to find me a camera because he knew how much photography meant to me. The way he reaches for me in his sleep, like even unconscious, he wants to make sure I’m still there.

I feel taken care of here. Cared for.

With Preston, everything came with invisible strings. The house, the clothes, the dinners, the life everyone thought I was lucky to have. Every beautiful thing was another piece of evidence that I should be grateful, another reason I had no right to complain.

Easton gives without making me feel like I owe him anything.

He makes me feel protected without making me feel trapped. Cherished without making me feel owned.

And I trust him.