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The sight of him in the morning light never failed to steal her breath, face relaxed in sleep, the hard edges softened, his usual mask of cool control nowhere to be found. This was a Brooks only she got to see, vulnerable, unguarded.

He cracked one eye open, taking her in, his expression shifting from sleepy to appreciative in an instant. “Damn, woman.”

A breathy laugh escaped. “What?” She shifted, suddenly aware of just how he was looking at her.

“Nothing.” His thumb traced the line of her jaw, his touch reverent. “Just thinking about how good you look in my bed.”

Heat bloomed on her cheeks. “Stop it.”

“Never.” The word was a statement as he leaned in, touching his lips to hers in a gesture that began gently but soon became more intense.

Her body responded instantly, melting against him like it always did. Taylor felt herself slipping, getting lost in the way his hands moved over her skin, the way he muttered her name against her lips.

It was tempting to stay, to lose herself in him for the rest of the morning, but the responsible voice in her head, the one that had gotten quieter lately but neverfully disappeared, reminded her of her commitments.

She pulled back, breathless. “I have to go. For real.”

Brooks sighed dramatically, though the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. “You know, all this shacking up is probably a sin.”

The absurdity of it, Brooks Bishop, of all people, teasing her about sin, made her laugh out loud. “Oh, now you’re concerned about my soul?”

“Nah.” His grin turned wicked. “Just saying there might be ways we could make this less sinful.”

Taylor paused, catching his meaning. Her heart skipped a beat. “Brooks.”

He kissed her again, quick and soft, before releasing her. “Go on, get ready for church. We can talk about making an honest woman out of you later.”

The casual way he said it, like it was the most natural thing in the world, made her stomach flip. Taylor slid out of bed, pulling on his discarded shirt from the night before. It hung to her thighs, swallowing her small frame in a way that made Brooks’ eyes darken appreciatively.

“I like that look on you,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow to watch her move around the room, gathering her things.

“Don’t get used to it,” she tossed back, though the smile on her face took any sting out of her words. “I’m going home to change.”

“You could leave some more stuff here, you know,” Brooks said, his tone deliberately casual despite the weight of the suggestion. “Save you the trouble of running back and forth.”

Taylor paused, a spark of warmth spreadingthrough her chest. It wasn’t exactly moving in together, but it was another step toward something permanent, something real.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I could do that.”

His answering smile was worth every moment of her previous reluctance.

Taylor showered, dressed in her clothes from the night before, and found Brooks in the kitchen with coffee brewing and bacon cooking. She paused in the doorway, taking in the scene Brooks Bishop, shirtless in sweatpants, cooking breakfast like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” she said, moving to stand beside him.

He glanced down at her, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “I know. I wanted to.” He nodded toward the coffee maker. “Grab a cup. Food’s almost ready.”

Taylor did as he suggested, the comfortable domesticity of the moment clouded her judgment. This was what she’d been afraid of, she realized, not that it wouldn’t work, but that it would. That she’d get used to mornings like this, to the easy way they moved around each other, to the simple joy of sharing space and time. That she’d get used to loving him and wouldn’t know how to stop if she had to.

They ate breakfast at the island, knees touching, conversation flowing easily between them. When Taylor glanced at the time again, she sighed.

“I really do have to go now,” she said reluctantly. “Church starts at 10:30, and I need to go home and change.”

Brooks nodded, gathering their empty plates. “Go. Do your thing.”

Taylor hesitated, a thought occurring to her. “You could come with me, you know. If you wanted.”

The invitation hung in the air between them, weighty with meaning. Brooks had been clear about his complicated relationship with church, with faith in general, since his mother passed. She wasn’t asking him to believe what she believed, just to be part of her world in the same way she’d become part of his.