Yeah, I don’t want to move either.
Not when she looks this peaceful, without all those walls she puts up.
As she nuzzles her face into my shoulder, there’s a softness to her expression, a look of contentment that I wish I could capture. I reach for my phone on the nightstand, taking in her serene smile and the way the morning light makes her look otherworldly. I take the quietest photo I can just to remember this moment, but when I try to set the phone back down, it slips from my fingers and crashes to the floor.
Neesha’s eyes flutter open, and I watch in real time as she processes our current situation—her head on my chest, my arm around her, our legs completely tangled together.
And then her eyes widen.
She jerks upright quickly, a blush spreading across her cheeks like spilled wine. “Did we—? I mean, how did I—?” She scrambles away from me like she just woke up in a bed of poison ivy. “I’m so sorry, Lucian. I’m used to having the bed to myself.”
I hold up my hands, trying not to wince as every movement reminds me I’m basically one giant bruise. “Hey, it’s okay. Nothing happened other than you fell asleep next to me. Henry was a good chaperone and kept everything strictly professional.”
She circles the bed slowly, her eyes wild, looking adorably rumpled in her t-shirt and pajama pants.
“But I don’t usually do that.”
“You mean, fall asleep at your neighbor’s house?” I tease. “Neesha, it’s fine,” I say, trying to crawl out of bed while my body feels like it’s been hit by a bus.
She frowns, watching me move. “Oh my word, how are you feeling? I’m so sorry. Here I was having a full panic attack aboutthis, and you’re literally broken.”
I carefully stand, wincing as I straighten my back. “Like I went ten rounds with a Marvel villain, but I’ll live.” I must look terrible to her, but I don’t want her to leave yet. “Stay for breakfast?”
She wrings her hands. “Oh, I’ll just head back to my place and have cereal like a responsible adult.”
“So responsible adults eat cereal, huh? Personally, I prefer waffles. Homemade ones with fresh fruit, Nutella, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream.”
“That sounds almost illegal,” she says. “But you can’t cook in the state you’re in.”
“I’m just sore, not broken,” I say. “And I make a mean waffle. I’d let you try one, but apparently your cereal is better?”
“Lucian.” She uses that tone that probably works on Henry when he’s being stubborn. “You nearly passed out from pain last night.”
“That was before the soup and…” I pause, because mentioning that we slept in the same bed will definitely send her running for the hills. “Everything else.”
She crosses her arms, and even with her unbrushed hair and makeup-free face, she looks like someone I could wake up to for the next fifty years.
“If you insist on being stubborn, we’ll make breakfast together,” she says. “But I’m ordering you to sit on a stool or I’ll kick you out of the kitchen.”
“You’re going to banish me from my own kitchen?”
“I absolutely will, and don’t think I won’t follow through.”
“Deal,” I say, trying not to show how much I love her taking charge. Last night she could barely look at me after learning I’ma hockey player, and now she’s bossing me around in my own house. Maybe getting my face rearranged was worth it if it means she’s comfortable enough to tease me again.
“Let me at least show you where things are,” I say, heading to the kitchen. I pull out the ingredients from the pantry and start measuring the dry goods.
“You have this recipe memorized?” she asks, surprised. “How often do you make these?”
I pull up a stool next to the counter so I can sit while mixing things up. “My grandpa’s doing,” I explain, cracking eggs one-handed into the mix. “Every Saturday morning he made waffles. He said someday I’d thank him for teaching me the secret to impressing women.”
She cocks her head while handing me a measuring spoon. “And how many women have fallen victim to your legendary waffles?”
“You’re my first. If this fails, I’m switching to cereal like all the other responsible adults, and accepting my fate as a failed waffle chef.”
“No pressure, then,” she says.
“I actually work better under pressure. Most hockey players do.” I pause, watching her reaction, but she doesn’t seem as guarded about my job.Maybe this is progress?
