Page 24

I wake up slowly.

Not with a jolt. Not in a rush.

Just… drifting up through layers of warmth and exhaustion.

And I don’t wake up alone.

The first thing I feel is heat.

The solid, steady weight of an arm wrapped around my waist, holding me close. The slow, deep rise and fall of a chest against my back. The steady, rhythmic breath against my hair.

And it should startle me. It should make my pulse spike, my brain scramble, my fight-or-flight instincts kick in.

Because this isn’t how I do things… right? This isn’t who I am. I don’t stay. I don’t wake up wrapped in someone else’s arms, feeling… safe .

But right now? I don’t want to move. I don’t want to break the spell. And that realization hits me harder than anything else.

I blink against the early morning light filtering through my curtains, letting myself feel it.

The warmth. The stillness. The way Grant’s fingers flex slightly against my stomach, even in his sleep. He knows I’m here.

And even unconscious, he’s still holding onto me. A deep breath shudders out of me.

Because I know what last night was.

I know what it meant. It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just a rash choice. It wasn’t just another hot hookup I could shove into the “fun but forgettable” category of my life.

It was a choice. And I chose him.

And now? Now, I have to decide what the hell to do with that. I don’t move. I should slip out of bed, grab my clothes, and put space between us before my brain catches up to what just happened.

But I don’t.

Because something is different. Something inside me isn’t screaming to run. And that? That’s terrifying.

I swallow hard, staring at the ceiling.

My whole damn body is rebelling against everything I thought I knew about myself. I take a slow, careful breath and slide out from under Grant’s arm. He shifts slightly, his hand grazing my waist before his grip loosens.

I freeze.

But he doesn’t wake up. Just exhales a slow, deep breath and settles back into sleep. Something about that—his comfort, his ease, his trust—sends a slow pulse of warmth through me.

And it’s almost enough to keep me in bed.

Almost.

I walk into the kitchen, starting the coffee maker and gripping the countertop. My reflection in the window over the sink stares back at me.

Hair a mess. Lips a little too swollen from last night. Eyes a little too wide with panic.

Because… what now?

What does this mean?

What does he think it means?

What do I want it to mean?

My stomach tightens. Because for the first time in my life, I don’t have an easy answer ready to go.

And that?

That might scare me more than anything. I take a deep breath. Then another. And when that doesn’t help, I turn on the water and splash cold water on my face and tell myself to get a grip.

Because running isn’t an option.

Not this time. I made a choice and I mean it.

I walk back into the bedroom just as Grant stirs.

He rolls onto his back, one arm draped over his forehead, his body all sleepy, warm muscle tangled in my sheets.

And just like that, my panic takes a backseat to something else.

Something deeper.

Because he looks so different like this.

Unburdened. At peace.

Like the weight of the world isn’t crushing him.

And I did that. I gave him that. And hell if that doesn’t shake me straight to my core.

His arm slides off his face, dark eyes blinking open. And the second he sees me, he smiles.

Soft. Slow. Undoing.

"You left me."

His voice is rough with sleep, deep and devastating.

It hits me in places I wouldn’t admit out loud. I cross my arms. Smirk.

"I was going to make breakfast. But I settled on coffee."

He catches my wrist, tugs me down onto the bed.

"You can go back to that later," he murmurs, his lips brushing my shoulder.

A slow shiver races down my spine. And I relax; I stop thinking.

I just feel.

I could stay like this forever. Wrapped up in him.

Letting his warmth, his presence, his steady certainty drown out every lingering doubt still clinging to the edges of my mind.

But reality doesn’t work like that.

And as much as I want to ignore it, I know we can’t stay in this bubble forever.

Grant shifts beneath me, his grip on my waist loose, but firm enough to keep me from slipping away.

His fingers brush lazy circles against my bare skin, his touch slow, absentminded.

But his eyes?

They’re sharp.

Watching me like he already knows I’m overthinking. Like he’s waiting for me to pull away.

And that’s the moment I realize—he’s scared too.

He won’t say it. Won’t admit it. But it’s there. In the way his jaw tightens. In the way his hand slightly trembles against my waist. In the way he’s holding onto me, but not too tight.

Like he’s giving me the chance to run. Like he’s bracing himself for it.

And hell if that doesn’t make my chest ache.

"This isn’t casual, Flight."

His voice is low, steady, but there’s something deeper beneath it. Something he’s not saying.

I swallow. Nod.

"Yeah. I know."

His grip tightens against my waist.

"Do you?"

I let out a slow breath, press my forehead against his.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I do."

And I actually mean it.