Page 69 of What We Burn

“Define okay.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear because it’s in her eyes and because I want to. “I got home late last night. They were in the kitchen.”

“Talking?”

“Not exactly.”

I watch the information land. Sage is smart—she doesn’t need me to draw a diagram. Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens, closes.

“Oh,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“They were— In the kitchen?”

“Against the island, from what I could tell. I didn’t stay for the full performance.”

She pulls the sheet up to her chin and stares at the ceiling, and I give her the space. This is one of the things I’ve learned about Sage—she needs thirty seconds of silence before she knows what she feels. Push her before that and you get the deflection. Wait, and you get the truth.

“Huh,” she says finally.

“Huh?”

She wraps her arms around the sheet. Whatever moves across her face, it isn’t jealousy. It’s closer to two puzzle pieces she’s been holding in separate hands clicking together.

“You okay?” I ask. Casual. Like the answer doesn’t matter, when we both know it does.

“Yeah. I’m—yeah.” She turns onto her side, facing me, tucking her hands under her cheek. “I think Micah really needed that. To clear the air, I mean. They’ve had a lot of unresolved stuff. From before me. Before all of us.” She pauses. “I’m glad. If it helps them.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“The Eli situation. You and him. That’s unresolved.”

She studies me for a long moment. Then she shifts closer, closing the gap between us, and her hand finds my chest. Palm flat, right over the sternum, like she’s checking my heart is still there.

“I have you,” she says. Simple. Direct.

“You do have me.”

“Then I’m fine.”

It’s a deflection and we both know it. But it’s also true, and right now, with her hand warm on my chest and her eyes soft and her mouth close enough that I can feel her breath, I decide not to cross-examine.

I kiss her. Slow, testing, almost sleepy, like we’re kissing through a dream. She answers by sliding her hand up my chest and into my hair, pulling me closer, her mouth opening under mine.

“We really need to get out of bed, wildcat.”

“We have two hours.”

“We have less than two hours.” I trail my lips down the curve of her neck, my hand cupping her breast. “And we need to drive into the city.”

“Then stop wasting time.” She hooks a thigh around my hip. “Fuck me.”

I roll her onto her back and she pulls me down on top of her, her legs wrapping around my waist, her fingers already working the hem of my shirt up my ribs. I let her pull it over my head then pin her wrists over the pillow with one hand, and she arches into it, testing the resistance, her breath catching.

I drag my mouth over her collarbone, taking a moment to suck each nipple into a peak before I release her hands and work my way down her stomach, my mouth on the soft skin below her navel. Her hand finds my hair and grips.

The door swings open.