"I don't know yet. Something ridiculous."
"Obviously."
I look at the space. Through the pass-through window, the children's section is dark but I can see the beanbag corner.
"Come here," I say.
He pushes off the doorframe. Crosses the café in four steps, boots quiet on the clean floor, and stops on the other side of the counter. We look at each other across the surface where, soon, I'll be plating croissants and pulling espresso and building something that's mine.
"I'm going to kiss you where the espresso machine will go," I tell him.
"That's very specific."
"I'm a specific person."
I come around the counter and he's already reaching for me. His hands on my waist, lifting me onto the counter's edge, stepping between my legs. My hands frame his face.
"Thank you," I say. "For not letting me do this alone."
"You never have to do anything alone again."
I kiss him. Slow at first, the way he taught me — no performance, no rush, just the feeling of his mouth against mine and the quiet dark of the café around us. Then deeper, his tongue against mine, his hands tightening on my waist, my legs wrapping around him.
"Not here," he says against my mouth. "Not on your counter."
"Why not?"
"Because the first time I take you in this café, it's going to be against the wall after your grand opening and you're going to be covered in flour and high on success and I'm going to make you scream and the espresso machine is going to rattle."
My entire body goes hot. "Take me home."
He lifts me off the counter. I lock up the café with shaking hands. We ride the bike home, my arms around his waist, my face against his back, the night air cold and sharp.
At Ash's house we barely make it through the door. His jacket off, my shirt over my head, his mouth on my throat while I fumble with his belt on the stairs.
"Bedroom," he says.
"Too far."
"Robin."
"BEDROOM. Fine."
We make it. He pushes me onto the bed and I pull him down on top of me and it's not desperate. Not frantic with fear or breaking with vulnerability or heavy with everything we haven't said.
It's just us. Robin and Vaughn. In our bed, in our room, in our life.
"I want you," I tell him. Not performing. Not begging. Just saying it, the way you sayI'm hungryorI'm home.A fact. "I want you, Vaughn."
"You have me."
"I know." I push him back on the bed. He goes — surprised, pleased, his eyes tracking me as I climb over him. "I know I have you. That's why I get to do this."
This is different. Every time before, Vaughn set the pace — slowed me down, held me steady, taught me to stay present instead of performing. Tonight I don't need teaching. Tonight I know where I am and who I'm with and what I want.
I undress him. Slowly, because he taught me that and I've learned to love it. His chest, the dark hair trailing down, the mechanic's calluses on his hands that I kiss one by one. The spot behind his ear that makes him shiver. The sound he makes — low, surprised, almost vulnerable — when I drag my tongue down his neck.
"Robin—"