Cole's expression softens, but he doesn't interrupt.
"What Will and I have—it's nothing like what Craig did to me. You know the difference better than most people." I hold his gaze. "I've never felt safer or more myself than I do right now. I need you to believe that."
"I do believe you." His voice is rough. "I just needed to hear you say it."
"I know." I step forward and wrap my arms around him, the way I used to when we were kids and he'd scraped his knee or gotten yelled at by Dad. "Thank you for caring enough to ask."
He hugs me back, tight and fierce. "I'm always going to care. Even when you tell me to mind my own business."
"I would never."
"You literally did that last week."
"That was different. You were trying to reorganize my spice rack."
He laughs, and the tension breaks. We stand there for a moment, brother and sister, the years of distance between us finally closing.
"I'm proud of you," he says. "For what it's worth."
"It's worth a lot."
When I get back to the bar, Will catches my eye with a questioning look. I give him a small nod, and the worry in his expression eases into warmth. He knows what Cole wanted to talk about. He probably knew before I did.
The rest of the evening passes in a comfortable blur. I mix drinks and chat with regulars and steal glances at Will whenever I think no one's watching. By the time we close up, my feet ache and my cheeks hurt from smiling and I feel more content than I have any right to be.
"Good night?" Will asks as we walk to his truck.
"Good night." I slide my hand into his, our fingers intertwining. "Great night, actually."
The drive home is short, just a few minutes through quiet streets that I'm starting to know by heart. Will's house, our house, sits at the end of a cul-de-sac overlooking the water. It's small but well-kept, with a porch that wraps around the front and windows that let in the morning light.
Inside, I kick off my shoes and head for the kitchen while Will locks up. There's leftover pasta in the fridge, and I'm reheating it when he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.
"Hungry?" I ask, leaning back into him.
"Starving." But he doesn't move toward the food. His lips brush the side of my neck, and a shiver runs down my spine. "But not for pasta."
"Smooth." I turn in his arms, looping my hands behind his neck. "Very smooth."
"I have my moments."
He kisses me, slow and deep, and the hunger in it makes my breath catch. Three weeks of this, and it still feels new. Still makes my heart race and my skin flush and my whole body ache for more.
"Bedroom," I murmur against his mouth. "Now."
He doesn't argue.
The bedroom is dark except for the moonlight streaming through the windows. We undress each other with the unhurried confidence of people who know they have all the time in the world. His hands trace paths along my skin that he's memorized by now, and I arch into his touch, wanting more.
"I want you right here," he says, pulling me toward the bed, and the low command in his voice sends heat spreading through me.
But tonight, I want something different.
"Not yet." I press my palms against his chest and push him gently backward until his knees hit the mattress. "Sit."
His eyebrows rise, but he obeys. The surprise in his expression shifts into something darker, hungrier, as I sink to my knees in front of him.
"Gemma."
