Page 73

He moves with devastating precision. Each stroke is slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping me with intention, like he knows exactly what I need and isn’t in any rush to give it all at once.

His body cages mine, one arm braced beside my head, the other slipping between us, fingers seeking, sliding, curling. Every movement is pure purpose.

My head falls back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted on a sound I barely register. His fingers sink into me, hitting just right, and my pulse hammers in my ears, in my chest, between my legs.

He murmurs something, my name I think, but it’s wrecked and low. Full of heat and restraint, like it’s costing him to keep from breaking apart right along with me.

The tension builds fast and my leg locks around his hip, holding him there, grounding myself against the sheer force of what’s coming. My nails rake across his shoulder, digging deep, and then I shatter.

Pleasure explodes inside me, white-hot and all-consuming, the climax crashing through me in wave after wave. I cry out, not caring how loud, not caring about anything except this. Him. The way he keeps his fingers moving, coaxing me through it, relentless and tender all at once.

Every nerve burns. Every breath is his.

And I come undone, completely and entirely, with nothing left to hide.

And then it’s just us. His chest pressed to mine, steam curling around us, the only sound our ragged breathing and the quiet rush of water.

Forehead pressed to his shoulder, breathing ragged, we stand quietly, wrapped in steam and each other.

When we finally step out, limbs heavy and fingers like prunes, we’re slow. Grinning, sleepy, and completely wrapped in each other.

I pull on one of his oversized t-shirts, breathing him in and he gives me that look, the one promising he's seconds from hauling me back to bed.

Instead, he grins, damp hair tousled. “Stay put. I'll make something.”

“Something edible or coffee and leftover cereal?”

He points. “One, rude. Two, underestimating my culinary skills is offensive.”

I arch a brow. “Right, because toast is gourmet.”

“Gourmet is subjective,” he calls back, heading for the kitchen. “Also, I make phenomenal toast. Even if it’s dark around the edges.”

I laugh softly, padding after him. The apartment filled with the faint warmth of last night, windows fogged from morning drizzle. He fills the kettle, movements casual, domestic.

This quiet side of him is addictive in a way I didn’t expect.

When he sees me, something soft flickers in his expression.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, gentle.

I nod, moving closer. “Yeah. Just… happy.”

His smile is slow, tender. “Me too.”

I slide onto one of the barstools, watching him rummage through the cupboards for coffee and something vaguely breakfast-adjacent. He’s humming under his breath, and I let it wash over me like sunlight.

This is the version of him I never really got before. And it’s addictive in a way I didn’t expect.

He sets two mugs on the counter and spoons in the coffee. “Milk and sugar, right?”

I blink. “You remember that?”

His smile curves at the corner. “Course I do. You glared at me for ten straight minutes that time I brought it black.”

“Because it tasted like regret.”

He snorts. “Fair.”

The kettle clicks off. He pours, passes me a mug with one hand while grabbing the bread with the other.

I take a sip and hum appreciatively. “Okay, I take it back. You might actually have some domestic skills.”

“Don’t let the lads hear you say that,” he says, popping slices into the toaster. “It’ll ruin my reputation.”

I rest my chin in my hand, just… watching him. The way he moves around the kitchen like he’s done this a hundred times. The way his hair falls into his eyes when he leans forward. The little frown he gets when he concentrates on something as simple as buttering toast.

He feels like peace.

Kieran hands me a plate with two golden slices. Miraculously not burned.

“I’m officially impressed,” I murmur, taking a bite. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

He leans on the counter opposite, sipping his coffee. “Just wait till I make you scrambled eggs sometime. That’s where the real romance happens.”

“Oh wow,” I say, deadpan. “How will I ever recover?”

He flashes a grin. “You won’t.”

The toast disappears faster than I’d like to admit, mostly because Kieran keeps watching me over his mug like he’s already planning our next round in bed. His smile is lazy, satisfied, and a little smug. But there’s warmth behind it, too.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I murmur, licking butter off my thumb.

“Like what?” he asks, setting his mug down.

“Like you’re trying to decide if I’m breakfast or dessert.”

He shrugs, utterly unrepentant. “Bit of both, probably.”

I roll my eyes, but my cheeks flush. Heat curls low in my stomach again. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stunning. Especially in my t-shirt.”

“Charmer.”

Kieran steps around the counter, arms sliding around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. “You say that like I’m not completely and hopelessly into you.”

I lean back into his chest, our coffee mugs forgotten on the counter, the hum of the city filtering in through fogged-up windows like background music. His heartbeat is steady against my back.

I could stay like this. I want to.

But eventually, reality calls.

“I should get going,” I murmur, glancing at the clock. “Mia will be up soon. And Brenda’s no doubt already fed her enough sugar to fuel a small army.”

Kieran sighs against my shoulder. “Right. Responsible parenting. Got it.”

I laugh under my breath, then kiss him softly. Like a promise.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?” I whisper.

“You’d better.”

He kisses me again like we’re trying to etch this moment into something permanent.

And maybe we are. Maybe we already have.

I pull back slightly, just enough to see him properly. His eyes are soft, full of open affection and quiet heat, and I swear I could fall into them if I wasn’t already halfway there.

“This…” I say, brushing my fingers along his jaw. “Was everything.”

His brows lift, like he wasn’t expecting that.

I smile. “Everything and more. I didn’t even know I could feel like this again.”

He swallows, the words hitting somewhere deep.

“And I know we’ve still got things to figure out. Life stuff. Complicated stuff. But last night... and this morning...” I pause, then say it. “I’ll hold onto it. No matter what happens next.”

Kieran doesn’t speak right away. His thumb just strokes slow, steady circles against my hip.

Then, quietly, he says. “You’ve got all of me, Ellie. You always will.”

My breath catches as I look at him. “Always, huh?”

“Since the second you gave me five minutes,” he says softly. “To the last breath I’ve got to give.”

My thumb grazes his cheek. “You only needed five minutes,” she murmurs. “But I think I’ll give you forever.”

Kieran exhales like she’s just knocked the wind out of him. His voice is rough when he speaks. “Then I’ll spend forever making it worth it.”

No smirk this time. No tease. Just truth.

He pulls me in, and I go without hesitation, burying my face into his shoulder, the beat of his heart loud against my cheek.

I laugh under my breath, blinking back the sting in my eyes. “God, I’m so glad you were an idiot with that beer bottle.”

He grins. “The most productive injury of my life.”

I release myself from his embrace and grab my bag, take a deep breath, and head for the door. But before I step out, I glance back one last time.

He smirks. “You going home in my t-shirt, Carter?”

I raise a brow. “Well, you didn’t exactly hand me back my dress after you peeled it off.”

He grins. “Guess that means it’s mine now.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” I say, backing toward the door with a smug little shrug.

His eyes darken just a shade. “So’s temptation.”

My stomach flips.

And as I turn and slip out the door, the grin still playing on his mouth stays with me, along with the quiet heat of his gaze, and the feel of his t-shirt brushing my thighs like a promise I’ll be wearing all the way home.

The taxi ride to Brenda’s is quiet. Not the heavy kind, just soft.

Easy. My head’s full of last night, my fingers still curled into the hem of Kieran’s t-shirt like it might slip away if I don’t hold on tight.

I can still feel his breath on the back of my neck, his mouth on my shoulder.

Still hear the low rasp of his voice when he whispered “look at me, baby” like I was something sacred.

It almost doesn’t feel real.

But the ache in my legs says otherwise.

We pull up outside Brenda’s, and Mia’s already on the driveway, standing with a bag of popcorn in one hand and a sparkly cardigan slipping off one shoulder like she’s just walked out of a tween magazine shoot. She spots me through the window and lights up.

I barely get the door open before she launches herself into a hug.

“You smell weird,” she mumbles into my coat. “Like shampoo. And perfume. And…” she leans back, nose scrunching. “Is that boy?”

Brenda laughs from the porch, arms folded and clearly enjoying herself. “Told you she’d say something.”

Mia grins. “I’ve been dying to ask since I woke up.”

“Rude,” I mutter, hugging her tighter. “Absolutely correct. But rude.”

Mia skips off toward the taxi like it’s a red-carpet moment, and Brenda steps in to give me a proper squeeze, the kind that says I’ve got you with no need to spell it out.

“You alright, love?” she murmurs near my ear.

I nod. “More than alright.”

Brenda pulls back just enough to give me a once-over. “That shirt’s not yours.”

I smirk. “Nope.”

“And you’re glowing.”

I snort. “Shut up.”

She winks. “Good. It’s about bloody time.”

The drive home is short. Mia hums softly beside me, tapping something out on her phone, her glittery cardigan sliding halfway off her shoulder. She looks relaxed. Happy. Like a girl who’s had popcorn and fizzy drinks and permission to stay up too late.

“Brenda gave me waffles for dinner,” she says as we turn onto our street. “With ice cream.”

I glance at her through the mirror. “Rebel.”

Then I glance again at her profile this time, and my heart stretches in that strange, achy way it always does when I’m not expecting it. This ease, this safety, it’s all I’ve ever wanted for her. For us.

Mia bolts up the path with the key already in hand. She lets us in with a satisfied little click, kicks off her shoes in the hallway, and heads straight upstairs to her bedroom, already on the phone with Claire.

I lean down to gather the stack of post that’s been shoved halfway through the letterbox. Most of it’s boring. Flyers, something from the GP surgery, a letter from the council. I scoop it up as I walk toward the hallway, sorting with one hand while reaching for my bag with the other.

Then my eyes catch on an envelope.

Plain. White. Heavier than the rest. My name and David’s printed in neat, generic type through a plastic window. No logo. No frills. No colour.

My stomach tightens.

The paper crackles slightly as I turn it over and slip my finger under the flap. The edges are crisp beneath my nails. I’m still standing in the middle of the hallway, bag sliding off my shoulder, when the words land.

I read it once. Then again. And again.

Then everything inside me stills.

Repossession .

The word punches through me like a fist. Every syllable, loud and cruel and final. Missed payments. Multiple attempts to contact us. Formal proceedings are already in motion.

I blink.

It doesn’t make sense.

My grip tightens around the paper. My eyes track the dates again. And again. And again.

My knees buckle.

I slide down the wall, the letter still clutched in my hand, an icy dread blooming in my chest. I don’t cry. I don’t even make a sound. I just sit there and let it take me. Let the weight of it press down in waves. Tight and suffocating. One breath at a time. One second after the next.

Behind me, Mia’s voice drifts in from the kitchen. How did she even get there?

“Mum? We’re out of digestives, can I have toast?”

I can’t answer. I can’t move.

This can’t be happening.

It’s a mistake.

It has to be.

I press the letter to my chest, trying to breathe through the crushing tightness. It feels like drowning in shallow water, like I’m gasping just beneath the surface, and the surface keeps rising.

I thought I was finally getting a grip on my life. I thought I was healing.

But it turns out I’ve been living in a house already half in ruin.

And the cracks I couldn’t see?

They’re about to split everything wide open.

But even now. When everything’s shifting, when the cracks are showing, when the future feels like a question I can’t yet answer…

Somehow, it’s still you.

END OF BOOK ONE : Ellie + Kieran’s story

will continue in Book 2: “Still It’s You”