He puts his phone down on the counter, then steps into me, hands sliding to my hips. His voice drops. “I’m not talking about your phone.”
My face heats instantly.
“Ethan,” I warn.
He kisses the side of my neck, quick and light, then pulls back just enough to look at me. “We’ve got ten minutes before she decides she hates that toy.”
“We do not,” I whisper, because we have maybe thirty seconds, but his confidence is contagious and also infuriating.
He smiles. “We do.”
“Your optimism is stupid.”
His hands tighten slightly. “Come here, Lila.”
I exhale, then let myself lean in.
I don’t know when our life became this, exactly. The soft chaos of a baby, the warm routines, the quiet power of him showing up every day, and the way he still looks at me like I’m the only thing he wants.
I also don’t know when fear stopped running the show.
Gavin and Victoria and Sabrina went down in one sweep, months ago now, and the aftermath was loud and messy and satisfying. Ethan didn’t just end them, he erased their access. He tore out the roots, he closed loopholes, he made sure nobody could touch us again without consequences.
There were court dates. There were meetings. There were headlines I avoided reading because I didn’t want my happiness contaminated by their names.
There was also the night Ethan came home after the final hearing, put his phone on the counter, and said, “It’s done.”
I’d stared at him like I didn’t believe him.
Then he’d walked to me, put both hands on my face, and kissed me like he was sealing it into reality.
“It’s done,” he’d repeated, and for the first time in my life, I’d believed it.
Now, in our kitchen, with Sofia making tiny noises in the background, Ethan slides a hand under my shirt and cups my breast like it’s familiar, like it’s home, like he’s not asking permission because he already has it.
I still shiver.
“You’re distracted,” I whisper.
He kisses my jaw. “I’m focused.”
“You’re literally trying to turn me on while I’m holding coffee grounds.”
He pauses, then looks down at the coffee grounds like they offended him. “Put them down.”
I do.
He backs me against the counter, mouth at my throat again, and my phone buzzes once more because apparently he’s committed to this bit.
I pull my head back. “Are you texting me while you’re kissing me?”
He doesn’t even flinch. “Check it.”
I snatch my phone and open the message.
Ethan: Tonight, after she’s asleep, I’m taking you upstairs, and you’re not going to talk me out of it.
My breath catches.
