Page 77 of Priest

I arch a brow, buying myself time. “Talk about what?”

He inhales, deep and controlled. I recognize the move. I’ve seen him brace before runs, before fights, before things that matter.

“What rules you want,” he says. “For me.”

The words land like a quiet detonation.

I still. My keys curl tighter in my hand, and my heart stutters before picking up speed. I told him he’d have to follow my rules because I wanted him to understand he didn’t get to bulldoze his way back into my life.

I didn’t expect him to actually stand here and ask for them.

“You’re really going to let me set the terms?”

“I’m done making them for you,” he says simply. “Didn’t work out so great last time.”

The hallway hums with the unresolved and undeniable pull between us that doesn’t weaken just because things went wrong. I look at him then. Really look. At the distance he’s keeping. At the way he hasn’t reached for me. At the fact that he’s sitting on my floor instead of standing inside my space.

He’s offering me control.

That realization settles deep in my chest, heavy and dangerous in its own way. I stand there, not responding, in front of an unlocked door. He just stands there, waiting. Not crowding me. Not filling the silence. Just present, like he’s finally learned that sometimes wanting something means not reaching for it.

I exhale through my nose and shake my head. “You’re impossible.”

A corner of his mouth lifts, cautious. “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard you tell me that before.”

I glance at the grocery bag, then back at him. My stomach tightens, unfortunately, not from hunger, but from recognition.

“Well,” I say dryly, unlocking the door, “the baby and I are starving. And at least you can cook.”

Relief flashes across his face so fast it almost hurts to see.

I step aside just enough to let him in. A show that it’s not an invitation, exactly. A concession.

“Kitchen’s yours,” I add, already turning away. “I’m taking a shower.”

He nods like he’s been handed something fragile. “Take your time.”

The water hits my shoulders hot and steady, and I brace my hands against the tile like I can anchor myself there.

I hate how easy it still is. How my body remembers him before my mind can catch up. The way being near him makes something in me loosen, like I’ve set down a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying.

I close my eyes, and the memories come anyway.

His hand closing around my neck, tilting my jaw up just right. The way his mouth felt perfect licking into mine. The way he trailed kisses down my neck, over my collarbone, lower, until my whole body felt like it knew exactly who it belonged to.

Being made love to by him had never felt small.

It had felt steady. Certain. Like standing inside a storm and knowing exactly where the eye was.

My throat tightens.

“Stop it,” I mutter to myself, pressing a hand to my stomach. “We’re not doing that.”

The baby shifts under my palm, a small reminder that I’m not alone in this anymore. That this isn’t just about what I want or what feels good.

I finish my shower quickly after that, scrubbing away more than soap ever could. By the time I step back into the kitchen, my hair is still damp and my skin is warm from the water.

The apartment smells incredible.