Page 91 of Break Me

I slip the phone back into my pocket and steer the bike onto the road. The night settles in around me. The kind of stillness that feels earned after everything that’s happened the past few weeks.

As if the dark itself has decided to let us rest.

Raven

Late summer slips in. The light is softer than it was weeks ago, honeyed and low even before the sun starts to sink, and the air carries that faint promise of change. The first hint that the season is beginning to come to an end.

Sam walks in with a paper bag in his hand. He pauses in the doorway like he’s taking inventory, like he still can’t quite believe he gets to walk into this place and find me waiting.

“You didn’t have to,” I tell him, even though I’m smiling. “I could’ve cooked.”

“I wanted to,” he says. Like wanting is reason enough, and with him it always is.

He sets the bag on the counter and begins unpacking dinner. The last thing he pulls free is a small box, which he places just a little closer to me than everything else.

A chocolate brownie. My favorite.

His thoughtfulness makes my heart flutter. He remembers things. Not because they're important to him. Because they're important to me.

I pull two mismatched plates from the cabinet because we still haven’t bought a real set. Sam watches my every move.

“You’re tired,” he says.

It isn’t a question. Just an observation. The way he notices everything without making it feel like I’m under a microscope.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

He arches an eyebrow.

I laugh because I know he knows better. “Okay. I’m a little off.”

He comes up behind me and slides his arms around my waist, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder.

“We’ll eat,” he murmurs, “and after you’ll let me take care of you.”

I lean back into him, allowing his words to wrap around me. “I’m not a damsel,” I remind him.

“No,” he agrees, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “But you are my wife.”

My wife.

I turn in his arms and kiss him, slow and warm.

“Fine,” I say against his mouth. “But it’s become I’m choosing to let you.”

His eyes hold mine. “I know.”

We eat at the small table by the window.

“So,” I say casually, “what happened at the clubhouse?”

He takes his time with his next bite. “Nothing,” he says finally.

I arch a brow. “Sam.”

“What?” he asks, his mouth twitching. “I’m eating.”

“Knox called you to the clubhouse,” I say. “He wouldn’t do that for nothing.”