His eyes catch the light like honey spiked with fire. Still too much. Always too much.
I dip the brush back into the tray and say, “We have at least an hour before he wakes up and demands snacks again.”
Kaz arches a brow. “An hour, huh?”
I shrug. “Give or take.”
He plucks the brush from my hand, sets it on the railing.
Then he kisses me.
It’s slow.
Not the frenzied, breathless kiss of those early days when everything was urgent and breaking. No. This one’s steady. Intentional.
Earned.
We drift inside without a word.
The air is warm, scented with citrus cleaner and wine. The living room glows with low light, and the speakers hum soft music—something wordless, all strings and gravity.
I pour us each a glass of red, fingers brushing his as I hand his over. He doesn’t say thank you.
He just watches me like he always does—like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my soul.
We sit on the rug.
Not the couch.
The rug.
Because sometimes bodies need floorboards beneath them. Something solid. Something real.
The first sip burns sweet. My head tips back, and I close my eyes, breathing deep.
When I open them, he’s closer.
His hand traces the curve of my knee, trailing upward. My skin wakes under his touch, every nerve humming to attention. His fingers find the hem of my shirt, lift, pause.
Permission.
I nod once.
He pulls it over my head, slow as molasses, eyes never leaving mine. His shirt goes next—tossed somewhere toward the fireplace.
No rush.
No games.
Just the slow unfolding of two people who already know what’s underneath.
He kisses my collarbone. My jaw. My wrist.
And I laugh—soft and breathy—because somehow he still makes me nervous.
“What?” he whispers.
“You feel different now,” I murmur, threading my fingers through his hair. “More dangerous.”
