Page 95

“Well, describe it to me. What does the outside look like?”

I trace the edge of one of her scars. “It’s a brick rambler. One-car garage.”

“What color brick?”

“Red.” I huff out a laugh at how unimpressive it sounds. She’s probably imagining something deliberate that reflects my preferences—gray or maybe black. Nope. Everything’s stock. No updates or personal modifications. Shit, I made more specifications on Debra’s house than mine.

“What does the inside look like?”

I understand she’s trying to get to know me by the place I call home, which is fair because you can walk around this apartment and get a feel for who she is. The way she’s filled it with items that hold importance to her—colors, textures, little pieces of herself tucked into every tidy shelf and side table. I don’t have that. There’s no answer I can provide that won’t disappoint her. My house is just a structure.

“It’s . . . a house.” I give a small shrug. “There’s a couch, a desk with my computer, a TV I barely use. A bed in my bedroom⁠—”

She gasps “A bed in your bedroom?”

I roll my eyes.

“Well, what’s on the walls? What about pictures? Decorations?”

I shake my head. “No pictures or decorations. I’ve never really . . . done that.”

Her brows furrow. “Why not?”

I open my mouth to tell her I never saw the point, but instead I close my lips and sit with her question. Truthfully it’s not something I’ve ever given much thought. My hand slides from her back to her waist, dragging her a little closer while I consider it.

“I don’t think about my house the way you do. Growing up, I moved around to different houses, but they never really felt like mine. I think it still kind of feels like that. I lived in my car for a bit, and that was as close as I ever got to feeling like a home. I grew up with a backpack and a black trash bag to hold my things. Over time, I realized it was easier to not grow attached to things because then I didn’t have to feel bad if I couldn’t take them with me. It was more important to keep the necessities than the small comforts. I guess I never grew out of the mindset.”

She draws her fingers up and down my neck. “Where you live should feel like home. You should make it somewhere you want to be.”

I want to be where she is.

My thumb strokes along her jaw, slow and thoughtful. “I want to.” I just don’t know how.

I have always admired the idea of permanence, the way humans can simply choose a place and make it theirs. Sometimes spending their whole lives in one spot. It’s not that I’ve been opposed to it, more that I don’t know how and the instinct isn’t there. In my experience, putting down roots means having them ripped out later.

A slow smile grows on her face and she turns her head, resting it on my chest.

She needs to know I can make a home where she feels like she belongs, too. The thought of her walking into my house as it is now—empty and impersonal—isn’t a great first impression. I want her to see me. Which means . . . shit, I need to unpack.

“What about when you were growing up?”

“What do you mean?”

“The homes you lived in? Were they decorated?”

I recall the various houses, the families. Nothing ever felt like it was mine. “Yeah, some were. Others were more run-down, but only because they were temporary stops while I went back and forth between foster care and my mom’s place.”

“I see.”

I’m sure she’s frustrated by the lack of intel I’m providing, but I don’t really want to talk about it right now, I want our lazy afternoon to be about her.

She hooks a leg over mine. There’s no urgency in it. I’m grounded with the feel of her weight on me, her warmth, the slow and steady breath she takes. The way her fingers absently trace the tattoos on my chest.

I dip my head, brushing my lips across her hair. It’s not a kiss so much as it is a connection. She’s naked in my arms, but neither of us is asking for anything, it’s just . . . closeness.

Her sheets are twisted low around our hips, which is exactly where I’d like them to stay from now until forever, because having her topless and tucked into my bare chest has every sensation heightened. Every caress is charged with need, and I’m keenly aware of how we feel together in a way I’ve never experienced before—it’s different from sex.

The quiet, casual skin-to-skin contact is somehow more intimate than anything else I’ve done with a woman. We move slowly together, hands and breaths finding the same cadence.