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It’s the kind of morning where the light hasn’t quite figured out how to fully fill the room, where everything is still covered in a golden hush. The sheets are tangled around us, half slipped down my hips, and his arm is heavy over my waist. One of his legs is hooked lazily around mine, his body curved protectively behind me—like even in sleep, he’s making sure I don’t drift too far.
The world could be ending outside those windows, and I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t care.
I lie there for a moment without moving, afraid if I shift even a little, the spell I’m under might break. My fingers find the inside of his forearm and trace the edge of his tattoo. I don’t need to see it to know exactly where the inked curves of the Calloway Diamond logo are. I’ve memorized every inch of him by now, not just with my hands, but with something deeper. I could close my eyes and still see the tattoos on his shoulder, the scruff on his jaw, and the base of his throat, where his breath catches when I kiss it.
There’s a weight in my chest that’s unfamiliar, but it isn’t heavy. It’s full. Not the kind of fullness that comes from fear or adrenaline or barely surviving, but the kind that settles in after everything else has moved out of our way—the noise, the tension, the ghosts.
Brody shifts behind me, his arm tightening around me just a little, like some part of him senses I’m awake. I smile, not turning yet, letting the silence linger for a little longer. But then he drags his nose along my shoulder, then presses his mouth into my hair, and I can’t pretend anymore.
I roll onto my back, and his blue eyes that hold a new sense of calm find mine right away. He’s barely awake. His dark hair is a mess, but he smiles like he was dreaming of me. That adorable Calloway smirk seems to undo me every time.
“Hi,” I whisper, brushing a thumb across the stubble on his cheek.
“Hey,” he says. He blinks once, then again, like he’s making sure I’m real.
There’s no rush to move, no need to fill the quiet. He leans in and kisses me, his lips brushing mine with a kind of longing that doesn’t ask for anything. It just is.
When we pull apart, he sighs against my cheek and whispers, “Mornings are always better when they start with you.”
I laugh. “That was dangerously close to romantic.”
He smirks, one eye still half shut. “Don’t get used to it.”
I reach toward him, tickling him, and he giggles and tries to wiggle away. Then I see him make a face like he’s in pain, and I immediately feel guilty.
“Aww, I’m sorry,” I tell him, placing my hand over the curves of his abs. “I’ll owe you one.”
“Thanks,” he says, cocky and macho, like he didn’t just giggle like a kid.
I let my fingers wander through the mess of his hair, smiling when he hums with satisfaction.
“Your touch feels so good.”
He’s warm and completely relaxed, and it’s such a contrast to the man who walked into my life, guarded and tense, ready to burn down the world for me. I can’t help but stare at him for a moment longer, memorizing the way he looks when he doesn’t think anyone’s watching.
I’ve never felt this safe. Not just physically, but in the space between us. In the quiet that always terrified me, but with him, it feels like home.
For the first time, I don’t feel like I have to get up and outrun something because there’s nowhere I need to be other than here with him, in his arms. We lie in the quiet, in the steady truth of us, and I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, where I belong.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“God, yes,” I tell him as he slides out of bed, putting on those old joggers I’ve kept since I was seventeen. I’m unable to take my eyes off him. “Hate to watch you go, but damn.”
“Keep it up, and we’ll stay here all day.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time!” I tell him as he comes and steals another quick kiss.
His strong palm rests on my cheek, and when he pulls away, he’s grinning.
When it’s just me, alone in the silence of the morning, I stare up at the ceiling, smiling so wide that it hurts, that this is my life. I’m living the dream.
The strong aroma of dark roast pulls me out of bed, and I slide on a T-shirt and some tiny shorts. The scent drifts down the hallway like a promise. The city is just starting to stretch awake outside the penthouse windows.
Brody’s in the kitchen, back to me, standing over the coffee machine with a level of concentration that makes me smile. His shoulders are relaxed, his hair still a mess from sleep, and the faint bruising on his back is obvious.
I just watch him for a few seconds, admiring every strong inch of him.
Brody showed up for me when my life was falling apart and held the pieces together like they were something worth saving. He helped me without asking for anything in return because he felt I was worth it.