Page 85 of Waiting for You

"And started writing the next one," I finished.

He looked up. His eyes were wet, and he wasn't hiding it.

I wasn't hiding mine either.

We were tear-streaked and wrecked and more honest with each other than we'd been in eight years. And it was the most terrifying thing I'd ever felt.

But this time, I didn’t want to run from it.

When we gathered ourselves, the morning had already won out. I climbed out of bed, and he groaned a protest, flopping back into the pillows, with one arm slung over his eyes. But he let me go when I gave him a pat on the cheek.

I grabbed one of his discarded dress shirts and pulled it over my head. The hem hit mid-thigh. I padded downstairs.

A strange woman stood in the kitchen.

She had her hair twisted into a severe bun and was wiping down the marble counter. She looked up the second I walked in with her hands going still on the cloth, her eyes narrowing as she took in the oversized shirt.

"Good morning," I offered.

"Good morning." She set the cloth down. "Who are you?"

"I'm Xavier's girlfriend," I answered.

She gave a slow shake of her head. "Xavier's girlfriend is someone else."

"Eliza," I supplied. "They broke up."

She abandoned the cloth and stared at me, her mouth drawing into a protective line as her chin lifted. She clearly knew Eliza. She'd probably watched Eliza move through this house for months, brewed her morning coffee, learned how she took her tea. I understood the loyalty.

"If you need to verify my security clearance," I added, dry, "he's upstairs."

She assessed me one long second, then turned back to wiping the counter.

I hopped onto a barstool.

"Do you just come by to clean?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered without turning around.

"Are you almost finished?"

She paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Why?"

"I want to make breakfast," I said. "But I didn't want to get in your way."

She studied my face, the rigid line of her mouth softening a fraction. "I'll be done soon," she murmured.

Heavy footsteps echoed on the staircase. Xavier appeared in the doorway with his dark hair a chaotic mess, wearing last night's dress shirt with the buttons fastened wrong.

"Morning, Ada," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Morning." Her tone warmed the instant she addressed him, the wariness melting away.

He dragged himself over to my stool and leaned in to kiss me. I slapped a hand against his chest, pushing him back.

"Your morning breath is a biohazard," I informed him.

He pulled back, offended. "It does not stink."