But tonight?
Tonight, I don’t steel myself for what comes next. I’ve always used control as a shield. But lying here with my wife in my arms, I finally understand something I never did before.
I don’t need certainty.
I just need her.
37
Kia
I wake gradually, my body deliciously loose. Sunlight spills across the bed in pale ribbons, catching on white sheets that still smell like him. I stretch and then freeze when I realize the other side of the bed is empty.
My fingertips slide over the mattress, searching for warmth. For proof last night wasn’t a figment of my imagination because I wanted it so badly. Still naked beneath the sheets, my skin hums with awareness, my body remembering things my mind has yet to process.
That’s when I hear the quiet clink of dishes and the sound of movement beyond the bedroom door. Relief rushes through me so swiftly, it’s almost enough to steal my breath. I sink into the pillows just as Laiken walks in, carrying a small tray. His movements are unhurried, as if the world isn’t pressing in on us quite yet. Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than right here with me.
The low-slung gray sweatpants coupled with his bare chest short circuits my brain, making it impossible to think. It’s an unfair combination on a man built like him. My gaze lingers, taking him in, committing every sun-kissed inch to memory.
My husband.
Those two words still feel surreal, like they belong to someone else rather than me.
As of yesterday, I’m the wife of Laiken Lennox, star goalie for the Chicago Railers. My brother’s teammate. The man who held me through the night like he’d never let me go. Not in this life or the next.
The moment his gaze lands on me, his expression softens. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I reply, my voice still raspy with sleep.
After setting the tray on the nightstand, he settles beside me, and the mattress dips under his weight.
The tray holds toast cut into neat triangles, a small bowl of fruit, and a mug with steam curling lazily from the top, the scent faint and calming.
“What’s all this?” I ask, pushing my hair back and taking it all in.
“I figured you’d be hungry.” A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Toast is easier on your stomach. Tea too.”
The unexpected thoughtfulness has my emotions swelling. He lifts the mug, waiting until I push myself upright before placing it in my hands. His fingers linger around mine.
“Take it slow,” he says. “It’s still hot.”
With a nod, I take a careful sip. Quiet satisfaction flickers across his face, as if he enjoys taking care of me.
He picks up a slice of toast and holds it out. “Here.”
“I don’t need?—”
“I know, but I want to.” Then he murmurs, “Do me a favor and eat, wife.”
The warmth spreading through me has nothing to do with the tea and everything to do with his deep baritone. I lean forward and take a bite, my cheeks heating as he feeds me piece by piece.
My father died before I was born, and my mom had worked two jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads while growing up. And other than getting a little help from my brothers, I’d learned early on how to take care of myself. No one had hovered or anticipated my needs. I’d had to become self-sufficient.
So allowing Laiken to do this is strange and unfamiliar. But it’s nice in a way I wouldn’t have expected.
“You don’t have to take care of me,” I say automatically, even as I lean into the comfort he’s offering.
His gaze never wavers. “Maybe I want to.”
