I pulled her closer, burying my face in the curve of her neck. “How did I get so lucky?”
“You asked me out a few times before I said yes. That’s not luck, that’s persistence.”
“You made me work for it.”
“I make everyone work for it.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Now eat. You can’t protect anyone if you pass out from low blood sugar.”
We ate dinner, talking about everything other than the run—her annoying neighbor, the new coffee shop that had opened in town, whether we should take a weekend trip after the run. Normal stuff. Couple stuff.
Later, after the dishes were done and we’d settled on the couch with the TV playing, Bea curled into my side with a contented sigh. “Whatever happens on this run,” she said quietly, “you come home to me. Okay?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Not a plan. A promise.” She tilted her head to look up at me, her eyes serious. “I know you can’t guarantee safety. I know your job is dangerous. But promise me you’ll do everything in your power to come back.”
I cupped her face in my hands, studying every detail—the freckles across her nose, the way her mouth was already starting to curve up even though she was trying not to let it.
“I promise,” I said. “I love you, Bea. I’m not going anywhere.”
She kissed me then, soft and slow, and I let myself sink into it. Finally let myself forget about maps, and routes, and all the ways the run could fall apart.
She stood and took my hand without a word. I let her lead me down the hall.
The bedroom was warm, her lamp on the nightstand casting everything gold. She turned to face me and I just looked at her for a second — the loose strand of hair against her neck, the curve of her shoulder where the lamplight caught it — and the noise in my head finally went quiet.
She reached for my shirt. I caught her wrist and kissed her first — slow, deliberate, nothing held back. She made a small sound and grabbed the front of my shirt with both hands.
“Stop thinking,” she said against my mouth.
“I’m not thinking.”
She looked up at me. “Liar.” But she was smiling.
She worked the buttons from the bottom up and pushed the shirt off my shoulders. I unclasped her bra, felt her exhale slowly — and that was the end of it. The planning brain went quiet. There was just this.
I kissed her neck, her collarbone. Took my time. She made small sounds against my hair and her hands moved through it, not pushing, just holding on. I paid attention to all of it — the responsive tells, the way her breathing shifted when somethingwas right. Same as reading the road, except nothing about the road felt like this.
I worked her jeans off and she lifted her hips to help. I spent a while learning what she wanted tonight. By the time she came apart it was with both hands fisted in the sheets. I cataloged every sound she made so I could find my way back here next time.
She was reaching for me before she’d finished. Impatient in a way I hadn’t expected, which I liked. I helped her with my belt and pushed into her. Going still for just a second at the end of it — still not quite used to this, still a little undone by it no matter how many times — before she tilted her hips and I started to move.
The kind of rhythm that comes from paying attention. She knew exactly how to shift against me; I knew the sounds she made when she was close. Nothing else. Just her — the heat of her, the way she moved, her nails finding my shoulders when she got there the second time.
She came quietly, her whole body pulling into mine. I followed, pressed my face into her hair, and let everything go.
Afterward we lay quiet, her curled into my side with her hand on my chest, the lamp still on. I watched the ceiling.
Tomorrow I’d go back to the clubhouse and finalize every detail. But tonight I was just a man holding the woman he loved, grateful for every moment he got to keep her.
Chapter 2
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— Bea —
The thing about being a therapist is that everyone assumes you have your own life figured out. They see the degrees on the wall, the carefully arranged office with its calming colors and strategically placed tissue boxes, and they think: this woman has it together. She knows how the mind works. She’s probably never had a panic attack in a grocery store parking lot or cried in the shower because everything felt like too much.
They’d be wrong.
