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Amy hesitated, spatula hovering. “You found me outside?”
“You were halfway to the mansion. Barefoot. Out cold.”
She gave a quiet, embarrassed laugh. “That’s mortifying.”
“Dangerous,” he corrected. “It’s bad enough wandering asleep near a house under renovation—but the cliffs aren’t fenced. You could’ve gone right over.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “I didn’t—”
“You didn’t mean to.” He cut her a look. “That’s the point.”
Amy’s silence stretched, with the faint hiss of eggs filling it. Sully sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said more gently, “You need some kind of alarm. Something that’ll wake you if you try to leave the house again.”
“I don’t sleepwalk,” she said finally, quiet but firm. “Never have.”
“Last night wasn’t nothing.” He watched her slide scrambled eggs and toast onto plates, her expression unreadable. “Until you figure it out, you shouldn’t be alone.”
“You mean run home to Kelsey so she can babysit me?”
He shrugged. “Or let someone stay here. Just until we know you won’t take another midnight stroll.”
Amy set the plates down. “I’ll think about it.”
He was half ready for a fight—some flash of defiance to match the spark he was used to receiving from her—but she only lowered herself into the chair across from him, eyes downcast, brow furrowed with thought. The quiet unsettled him more than any argument would have.
They ate in calm silence for a while. The rhythm of fork on plate, the tick of the clock, Ollie’s tail thumping now and then when a morsel came his way. It was almost normal. Domestic.
Strange, given that last night she’d looked like a ghost walking out of the fog.
When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. “I remember… pieces. The cold. The fog. And you.” She met his eyes briefly. “I remember you picking me up.”
Sully nodded, still chewing. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “And thank you.”
He twisted the mug in his hands. “You’d have done the same.”
She got up then, moving to stand behind him. “I probably couldn’t have; you’re a big guy, you know.”
He huffed a laugh, halfway through another sip of coffee, when she slid her hands gently over his shoulders. “What are you…”
“Returning the favor.”
Her thumbs pressed into the tight muscles along his neck slowly, carefully. He felt the tension in him unspool with embarrassing speed.
“Jesus, Amy,” he muttered. “You’ll ruin me.”
She leaned closer to reach the knots high on his back. Her breath touched his ear, and her scent—clean skin and a soft floral perfume—curled around him. The combination of warmth and pressure made it hard to think about anything respectable.
When she shifted, her chest brushed lightly against his shoulder. Sully forced himself to breathe. To not turn his head. But his hand betrayed him; it rose, covering hers where it rested on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said roughly.
Amy paused. Then she leaned in, close enough that her hair brushed his jaw, and pressed a kiss against his cheek.
He stilled.
Her lips lingered for one heartbeat, then another. Then they moved—slowly—toward his mouth. The kiss that followed wasn’t hesitant at all; it was warm and hungry and real.
