For a second, I forget to breathe. His proximity is its own gravity—steady, inevitable.
“I told myself this shouldn’t happen,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too. But I’m damn glad it did.”
I don’t know who moves first—maybe it’s mutual—but then his hand brushes my jaw, calloused fingers tracing the line of my throat. My pulse jumps, unbidden.
The kiss is slow, deliberate. Not the hungry kind, not yet—this one is about exhaling and surrendering. About exhaustion finding solace in touch.
When his mouth deepens the kiss, my hand slides up his chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath the cotton of his shirt. I taste warmth and want, mixed with the faint echo of wine.
He pulls back just enough to murmur, “You sure?”
My answer is a whisper against his skin. “Yes.”
He rises, taking my hand, and the world narrows to the soft glide of fingers and breath and heartbeats. Upstairs, the house is silent. The street outside, still.
And for once—despite everything closing in—there’s no fear, no defense. Just this.
The week finally closes with all the grace of a preteen cleaning her room. Richard picked up Stella from school on Friday, leaving the weekend to Noah and me. Saturday dawns quiet—with Noah in my bed for the first time.
With Stella at Richard’s, last night Noah spent the night in my bed instead of me retreating to the guest room and tiptoeing upstairs before she woke. We have nothing planned today. I’d had to agree to that in advance—otherwise, a different team member would’ve been scheduled as backup.
The surreal quality of it—of him in my bed, of an ordinary Saturday morning—feels especially sharp in the early quiet. The November sun slants through the window, gold and deceptive. From here, it could be summer—if not for the chill beyond the glass.
“Morning.” His voice is a rough rasp, sleep-heavy. Then his body jolts. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
He’s out of bed in seconds, bare feet thudding on carpet.
“I’m late. I never oversleep.”
I smile into the pillow. “Late for what?”
“Meeting Jake.”
So much for a slow morning. I watch him dress—efficient, focused, tucking in the lethal calm that lives just under his surface.
“You’re staying in, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
That earns me a grin. He starts for the door, then doubles back, catching me by the waist and kissing me hard enough that my knees weaken. When he pulls away, he glances down at his shorts, mutters, “Damn. Every time,” and leaves shaking his head.
“You’ll be back for lunch?” I call.
“By one!”
The door shuts and silence returns.
Hours later, I’m cocooned on the couch, blanket wrapped around me, a novel open on my lap and the late-autumn light gilding the hardwood floors. The house feels alive but safe—each creak familiar, each breath of wind harmless.
I rise to make lunch, padding into the kitchen, when I notice my phone lit on the counter. The stillness cracks.
Missed calls. Richard.
Texts stacked beneath his name.