The domesticity of it all hits me hard. Standing in Kasen's kitchen. Drinking from his glasses. Opening his freezer like I belong here and taking out the bowl of ice cream and potato chips he made me in the middle of the night. It's been two days, and already he’s got me all up in my feels.
Honestly. I thought I was made of tougher stuff than this.
After my ice cream snack, I make my way to the guest room and change out of my work clothes into leggings and one of Kasen’s t-shirts I snagged out of his closet. He didn’t say anything to me about the one I was wearing last night, so I figure he doesn’t care.
The bed calls to me, and I don't resist, crawling under the covers with a sigh of relief.
Just a quick nap, I tell myself, setting an alarm for an hour. Then I'll check in with Kieran for a debrief about the Orson call.
But as I start to drift off, it's not Cascade or Miller or million-dollar offers I'm thinking about. It's Kasen. His deep, gravelly voice on the phone. The protein bar he slipped into my purse. The way he said "trust your gut" like he actually believes in me.
The last thing I register before I set my alarm is a bizarre craving hitting me hard.
Pink Lady apples sliced thin and dipped in hot sauce. With a side of butterscotch pudding.
C’mon, evenIknow that’s gross.
Like on a logical level, I mean, because my body isnotlogical with the way my mouth’s watering.
I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes and staring at my phone as my mouth waters. My stomach growls aggressively, like it's personally offended I haven't already delivered this specific combination of foods.
"Fuck my entire life," I mutter, weighing my options.
I could text Kieran. He's handled weirder requests and wouldn't ask questions. But my fingers are already typing a message to Kasen before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: SOS. Need pink lady apples + hot sauce + butterscotch pudding. It’s an emergency.
His response comes before I can even set the phone down.
Kasen: On it. Give me 20 minutes.
I fall back against the pillows, staring at his immediate response. No questions asked. No teasing. Just "On it."
I should be irritated by how quickly he's jumping to fulfill my ridiculous cravings. Ishouldbe able to get up and go get them myself. Instead, I'm fighting a stupid smile I'd deny if anyone saw it. This kind of dependency wasn't part of the plan.The fact that I'm texting him instead of Kieran is a red flag I'm deliberately ignoring.
This is bad.Sobad. I'm starting to expect his support. To count on it. To want it.
And the only thing worse than needing Kasen James?Wantingto need him.
My wife won’t stop stealing my clothes.
Not that I'm complaining. There's something about seeing Wren in my clothes that does things to me. Dangerous things that make me forget all about our negotiated boundaries. Like right now, she’s shuffling into the kitchen wearing my faded Timber Brewing hoodie, the fabric stretching just enough across her growing belly to make it impossible to ignore the reality of our situation.
She’s sixteen weeks pregnant. With my kid. Living in my house.
And still trying to pretend we're nothing more than reluctant roommates.
"Morning," she mumbles, making a beeline for the coffeepot. Her hair is piled on top of her head in that messy knot she always wears when she’s at home and there’s something about her without makeup like this that just does it for me.
"Decaf's on the counter," I say, not looking up from my laptop where I've been updating my calendar with her next prenatal appointment and all the baby milestones. "I made it fresh ten minutes ago."
She grunts something that might be thanks or might be a death threat. Hard to tell with her before she’s fully awake. Three weeks of living together has taught me that mornings aren't her thing.
Three weeks that have felt simultaneously like three years and three minutes. The blue balls have been no joke.
"You're up extra early," she says after her first sip of mostly creamer, leaning against the counter and eyeing me suspiciously over the rim of her mug.
"Just adding some stuff to my calendar." I close the laptop, not wanting her to see that I've been researching cribs instead of working on the new seasonal beer label like I told Lake I would. "It’s a big day today."
