His face cracked open.
Just… cracked. Like he wasn’t prepared for that answer. Like it shattered him. “Oh, Juniper,” he said, voice a low ache, like he was breaking in time with me. “You are. You always were.”
I let out a shaking breath. “I don’t think anyone’s ever held me like this. Like I mattered. Like theywantedto.”
He kissed my forehead. My cheeks. My tears.
Then my mouth.
And it wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t wild. It was steady. Certain. The kind of kiss that promises things without speaking.
When he pulled back, his thumb brushed under my eye.
“Then let me show you,” he said. “Every day. Every fucking day, if that’s what it takes.” I curled my fingers against his arms and let myself cry again. This time, not out of fear or grief or pain.
He laid us back down, one hand in my hair, curling through my locks, holding me against him as I rode this wave of not-grief.
I must have fallen asleep again, because I woke to the smell of sugar.
And cinnamon?
I blinked, lashes sticky with dried tears, the soft press of warmth at my back pulling me from the edges of sleep. Ansel’s chest was curled along my spine, his arm banded around my waist, hand resting low. Possessive. Like he might have drifted back to sleep but didn’t trust the world not to take me from him.
I didn’t move, not yet. Just sank into the weight of him. The silence was golden — the kind that only comes after you’ve beenseenand held and wanted so thoroughly that your body forgets how to guard itself.
“You awake, kid?” he murmured against the crown of my head, voice hoarse.
“Mm,” I managed.
He kissed me there. The tip of my shoulder. The curve where neck met jaw. “I made French toast.”
“Youwhat?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He smiled against my skin. “I’m great at breakfast, remember?”
I rolled over, still groggy, hair a mess, cheeks flushed. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“Only an hour, maybe.” He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “Wanted to let you sleep. You looked like a dream I didn’t wanna wake up from.”
“Corny,” I muttered, even as my face caught fire.
He kissed my nose. “True.”
A silence settled around us. I traced his bicep where it stretched under the sleeve of a soft old t-shirt. He let me. Let me explore him with sleep-slow fingers, like I was rediscovering a map I used to dream about.
He propped himself up on one elbow and grinned. “Want it in bed or want me to carry you to the kitchen like the goddess you are?”
I gave him a look. “You’re gonna feed me like I’m Aphrodite?”
“Careful, sweetheart. I’d hate to get cursed by the goddess of beauty for what I’m thinking right now.”
I laughed, pressing my face into the curve of his throat. “… I want it here.”
He scooted out over the side of the bed and came back quickly with a plate already made, a folded napkin, a fork tucked beside it. Syrup glistened on golden toast, dusted with powdered sugar.Of coursehe’d made it fancy.Of course,it smelled like a five-star hotel breakfast.
“You made this?” I whispered, suddenly and stupidly close to tears again.
“I made this,” he confirmed. “And I’d do it again.”
