Page 167 of Reeves

The tour continues through a fully equipped workout room, a study with mahogany furniture, and finally the hydroponic garden where tomatoes and herbs grow under artificial sunlight.

"This is where the food comes from?" Benjy touches a tomato plant with careful fingers.

"Some of it. But I think we should head upstairs for dinner. There are a few places in walking distance if you're up for it."

My stomach responds with an embarrassing rumble.

"I take that as a yes," Reeves grins.

Twenty minutes later, we emerge from the house into the thick July evening. The sun hangs low, painting the Garden District in golden light, but the heat still presses against my skin like a warm blanket.

Benjy walks between us, his hand finding Reeves's without hesitation. My heart pounds watching them together, the easy way Reeves matches his stride to Benjy's shorter steps.

"There's a place called Ruby Slipper about four blocks that way," Reeves points down the tree-lined street. "Kid-friendly. Good burgers."

"Can we get milkshakes?" Benjy asks, swinging their joined hands.

Benjy turns those green eyes on me, the same shade as his father's, and I can't refuse.

"I don't see why not. No school tomorrow."

We walk slowly through the neighborhood, past wrought-iron gates and sprawling porches. Reeves's free hand brushes mine as we navigate the sidewalk, his fingers catching mine for just a moment before releasing.

"You're going to spoil him," I say as Benjy skips ahead to examine a fountain.

"I'd like to spoil both of you." Reeves stops walking, his hand finding my elbow, thumb tracing small circles against my skin.

The simple touch makes my breath catch. Everything about this feels dangerous and right at the same time.

Benjy's breathingfinally slows into the deep rhythm of sleep. I wait a few more minutes, making sure he's completely out before slipping from the bed.

The sound of running water draws me toward the main area. Reeves stands at the kitchen island with his back to me, chopping something on a cutting board.

His hair is still damp from the shower, and he's changed into a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The fabric stretches across his broad shoulders, and I can see the edge of his tattoos peeking out where the sleeves end.

Worn blue jeans sit low on his hips.

I stop in the doorway to watch him. The overhead lights catch the definition in his forearms as he works, and something deep in my chest tightens.

This moment, this scene, it's everything I used to dream about. Him in a kitchen, comfortable and domestic. Our son sleeps safely in the next room. The three of us together are here like a real family.

Then the weight of Friday crashes over me. He leaves in four days.

Don't ruin this moment. Don't think about it.

But I can't help myself. I've been holding back for so long, protecting myself from wanting exactly this. And here it is, right in front of me, temporary as everything else with him.

I cross the space between us and slip my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my face against his back. The cotton is soft and warm, and underneath I can smell his soap, the clean and familiar scent that makes my neck ache.

"Benjy's out."

He sets down the knife and covers my hands with his, leaning back into me.

"I'm glad he's comfortable. I love watching you with him."

"Ditto."

He turns in my arms, and his hands frame my face. "I've been wanting to do this since we walked through that door."