Page 14 of Everything But Mine

Just as I slide my arms off Amanda, her eyes open without a trace of anger. She hoards her feelings, though, so I know it’s still there. I push my luck and kiss her forehead.

“I know you’re still pissed. I just couldn’t sleep with you on the couch.”

“I didn’t know there was another option.”

My lips curve into a sour smile. “No, you wouldn’t know this apartment.”

Her eyes flutter close. “I shouldn’t have said any of that.” Her voice is thick with sleep.

I shush her. “Go back to sleep.”

She reaches out and grabs my wrist. Eyes closed again. “Will you stay?”

I pull my office chair closer to the futon and sit, afraid that anything I say will make her request vanish. Amanda’s breathing evens out as I watch her, hand still in mine.

“I’ll stay,” I murmur. “Will you?”

I could tell her a thousand things, but she’s never really needed promises. And the last thing she needs right now is mine. She needs peace. Rather than speak, I settle into the silence, hoping my presence is enough.

Surprisingly, her eyes flicker open, catching mine, and for a moment, it’s not the confusion of before. It’s just us. A brief breath of belonging. She won’t be going elsewhere. Not if I have any say in it. My home will be her home. The way she’s always been mine.

For now, though, it doesn’t need to be anything but a place for her to catch her breath.

CHAPTER FIVE

AMANDA

When I open my eyes, morning light filters into an unfamiliar room. My heart pounds wildly in my chest at the sight of Eric in front of me. He’s laid back in his office chair, tilted back at an awkward angle, his neck slumped to the side. He’ll be sore later. His soft snore fills the room while one of my hands is firmly held between both of his, resting on his thigh.

The light softens the sharp cut of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the faint crease between his brows. His lashes rest against his cheekbones, dark and thin. His lips, usually so firm with whatever he won’t say, are slightly parted now. With each exhale, his breath stirs the strands of his too-long hair, just enough to brush against his forehead before settling again.

He’s so beautiful. The thought intrudes, impossible to ignore. An unwarranted surge of possessiveness stirs in me. It’s not a common sight: unguarded Eric, clinging to me like I am something precious to him.

I’d smelled the alcohol on him the second he came up to me. Everyone knows what Eric does, but smelling lilies on his clothes when I hugged him… made it real in a way it hadn’t mattered for years. I’ve never had any right to him. Not even when I thought maybe I might. And yet, in my stupid way, I have this distorted sense of ownership over him. That I’m somehow special to him—it’s unhealthy and has to stop.

The possessiveness lurks—always there, lingering, threatening to rise. I glance at our hands, mine engulfed in his, feeling the calloused fingertips brush against my skin. My thumb twitches, I skim it across his knuckles, and his hand tightens in reflex. The sight doesn’t help curb this feeling that makes Eric feel mine.

After sitting up, I drape the blanket over him, watching as he stirs and tightens his hold on my hand but doesn’t wake, mumbling something incoherent before finally letting go of me.

Stepping into the kitchen, I’m greeted by the mess of the late-night dinner. After showering and getting dressed, I find Eric already up. He’s preparing breakfast and cleaning my mess, pausing every few minutes to rub his neck.

The toaster lever jumps, and Eric turns to grab the bread just as he pulls a pan off the stove. He’s still in sweats and an undershirt, his dark brown hair falling in loose, untamed waves. It curls around his ears, the back brushing the collar of his T-shirt. I spot a few knots and tangles that my fingers itch to smooth.

He sets a plate with cheesy scrambled eggs in front of me. “I wasn’t sure it’d be—” His gaze flicks to my stomach, hesitation crossing his face. “An issue?”

My childhood favorite. He hates scrambled eggs, though. Awkwardness settles between us, thick and uncomfortable. He feels out of place in his own home. I shouldn’t have come here. Or at least, I shouldn’t have let our unmentionable history slip in. This isn’t fair to him.

I nod. “Thank you.”

He slides his plate onto the same seat I took last night and sits. “Coffee or tea?”

The words are casual, but the underlying question is clear. Are you drinking caffeine while you’re pregnant?

I don’t know, I want to say. I don’t fucking know.

Instead, I say, “Coffee, first thing in the morning.”

He nods. A cup appears in front of me. Hazelnut. My favorite. Then comes the creamer. Then Stevia is placed next to it.