His mouth curves. “That’s a terrible reason.”
He drops the tie on the chair by the door, then shrugs out of his jacket. The simple act shouldn’t feel intimate. It does. Maybe because I’m in his bed. Maybe because I spent four nights pretending his scent was enough to keep the bad things out.
Maybe because I missed him.
He comes to the side of the bed and stops there, looking down at me in a way that makes my pulse misbehave instantly. “Did anything happen while I was gone?”
I shake my head.
“Any pain?”
“No.”
“Any bleeding?”
“No. But I felt the baby move.”
His shoulders ease by a fraction. So slight I might have missed it if I didn’t know him better now.
I wet my lips. “What happened out there?”
“Nothing you need to worry about tonight.”
“That means it was bad.”
His jaw tightens once. “It means I’m here.”
The answer should irritate me. Instead, it warms something low and aching in my chest. He reaches out then, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch is light. Almost careful. That’s what undoes me. Not the possessiveness. The care.
I lean into it before I can stop myself and his eyes darken at once.
“Birdie.”
I swallow. “You came back.”
Something unreadable passes over his face. “I said I would.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “You did.”
For a second, the room goes very still.
Then he sits on the edge of the bed, one hand still on my cheek, and whatever fragile restraint I had been clinging to just loosens. I reach for him first this time. My fingers catch in his shirt, pulling him closer until his forehead drops to mine.
He exhales like the contact costs him.
“You should be asleep,” he murmurs.
“I was.”
“In my bed.”
“In your room,” I correct softly.
A faint smile touches his mouth. “Such an important distinction.”
“It is.”
“Why?”
