Alex smiled at me. "We should go back in."
I nodded, letting my hand fall from his neck. "Yeah."
As we turned toward the house, he paused. "For the record, I'm not scared anymore."
I watched him walk back toward the warmth and chaos of my family, wondering how someone I'd known for such a short time could already understand me so well.
Chapter fourteen
Alex
Iwoketothefaintsmell of coffee and the sound of rain against the window.
It wasn't the polite, hesitant drizzle of a usual Seattle morning. It was a persistent drumming that filled the bedroom with its rhythm. Michael's apartment had become our fragile vessel, temporarily watertight against the rising tide of external dangers.
My body was pleasantly sore in places that reminded me of the night before. Of Michael.
He was awake beside me and reached out. His fingers brushed lightly across my skin. The callused pads of his fingertips traced a line down the center of my chest until he hit the trail beneath my navel and grinned.
I kept my eyes closed and let myself breathe in. The sheets smelled like us, a blend of sweat, soap, and lingering sex.
For one perfect moment, I let myself believe in mornings again. I'd moved beyond the mechanical act of waking—which I'd managed even in my darkest grief—to tentatively eager anticipation of the sunrise. It meant looking forward to Michael's breath against my neck.
I turned toward him slowly, my eyes finally opening to find his face closer than I expected, watching me with an intensity that should have felt intrusive but made me smile instead.
"Hey." My voice was still rough with sleep.
"Hey, yourself."
Michael climbed out of bed first, and I rolled over to watch the raindrops on the windowpane. I was in someone else's bed, but it almost felt like home.
Minutes later, I dragged myself out of bed and found Michael in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a worn-out Pike Place Market t-shirt. It was faded navy and so thin his pec muscles left nothing to the imagination.
The coffeemaker worked on an automatic timer and filled the space with the scent of a fresh brew. Michael moved with quiet efficiency, reaching for mugs without looking, knowing exactly where each item belonged in his space.
He handed me a chipped mug with a faded cartoon bulldog on it, like it was normal, something we did every day. The ceramic was warm against my palms.
"Really? This is what you're offering your guests?" I raised an eyebrow at the worn nature of the mug. "I'm honored."
He laughed under his breath. It was a low rumble that started deep inside his chest.
"It was a gift from Miles when I made SWAT. He said I looked like a bulldog when I focused." He took a sip from his own mug—plain black, no chips. "Apparently, that was a compliment."
"And here I thought you were more of a German shepherd." I inhaled the coffee's aroma, letting the steam warm my face. "Loyal, intense, possibly over-protective."
"Is that your professional assessment, Professor?"
"A casual observation." I raised the mug to my lips, hiding a smile behind the rim.
We moved around each other awkwardly, still learning our blocking, bumping elbows and pretending not to care. When I reached for the refrigerator, he stepped back, and our shoulders brushed. When he leaned across me for sugar, his chest pressed briefly against my arm.
Michael pulled bread from a cabinet, dropping two slices into a toaster that had seen better days. The spring mechanism stuck, requiring him to press down twice before it caught.
"I should warn you that I'm not known for my culinary skills."
"Toast is a solid start." I leaned against the counter, watching how his shoulder blades moved beneath the thin shirt. "When I first started living alone, I survived on cereal and takeout for months."
"After Marissa?"
