Chapter 39
Finn
The door creaked open under my elbow as I shouldered it in, basket balanced against my hip, rain still dripping from the ends of my hair. “Heroic rescue of your laundry complete. You’re welcome. I fully expect praise, baked goods, or at the very least, a medal.”
Saoirse didn’t look up right away, her hands deft as she folded a tea towel with the kind of efficiency that should not have been hot, and yet—there it was.
There was something stupidly appealing about her like this: barefoot, hair tied back in a loose knot, an oversized hoodie slung off one shoulder, and that small furrow of concentration between her brows as she smoothed another shirt.
She glanced up at me finally, one eyebrow arched. “If you’d managed it before the rain started, I might’ve made scones.”
Ajax didn’t even twitch from his spot by the hearth, sprawled on his side in the same position he’d been in all morning. Pippin, meanwhile, was perched on the windowsill, looking personally offended by the weather, tail flicking like the clouds had wronged him by taking away his sunbeam.
I set the basket down with a dramatic sigh, letting it thump against the bench. “Truly, no one suffers like I do.”
I moved in beside her and reached into the basket, fishing out one of my own t-shirts and giving it a token shake. “See, I fold. I’m helpful.”
She side-eyed my attempt, then made a noise that could only be described as unimpressed. “That’s not folding. That’s… vaguely creasing and giving up halfway.”
“Pretty rich from someone who color-codes her socks like they’re part of a military op.” I held up a carefully rolled pair. “Do these get filed under navy or ‘psychologically alarming’?”
Saoirse bumped my hip with hers, grinning. “They get filed under ‘functional adult.’ You should try it sometime.”
We kept folding in a loose sort of rhythm, our elbows brushing now and then, the occasional nudge turning into half-hearted shoves. Her hands moved fast and sure, stacking neat piles while mine definitely leaned more toward casual suggestion than structural integrity.
I dropped a sweatshirt squarely on top of the wrong pile.
Saoirse huffed. “You’re going to undo all my work,”
“I consider it a challenge. Or an invitation to chaos.”
She rolled her eyes and lobbed a towel at my head.
It hit with a satisfying thwap , trailing over my face before landing in a crumpled heap at my feet.
“Oh, you’re done for.” I scooped it up and launched it back.
It hit her shoulder and slid off harmlessly, but her gasp was pure scandalized drama. “You absolute menace.”
“You started it.”
She lunged for another towel, and I backed up, arms raised in mock defense as I laughed, already planning my next move.
She lunged for a sock, damp from the sudden turn in the weather, threatening me with it like a weaponized bit of wool. “I swear to God, if you come at me with that blanket again?—”
I grinned and advanced anyway, holding the half-folded blanket like a net. “What, this? This is a tactical maneuver.”
“It’s a trap .”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I feinted left; she darted right, and I caught her around the waist, spinning her toward the sofa as she shrieked-laughed and flailed, the sock forgotten, the blanket dropping to tangle around our ankles.
She twisted in my arms, elbowing me gently in the ribs, laughing hard enough she could barely catch her breath. “That’s cheating !”
“All’s fair in love and laundry.” My fingers slipped under the hem of her shirt as I tried to gain leverage.
“You’re ridiculous.” She shoved back at me, harder than necessary, playful on the surface but with that undercurrent I’d come to recognize. That slow melt of tension. That spark in her eyes.
We were still laughing, still half-fighting for ground when I hooked my hand at her hip to steady us and didn’t let go.
She looked up at me through a fall of hair, cheeks flushed, lips parted. Her sweatshirt had slid slightly off one shoulder, rumpled from where I’d grabbed it mid-spin. She looked like chaos wrapped in cotton, and I couldn’t get enough.
“You’re distracting.” Her breath was a little uneven, her tone dry. But her eyes gave her away as she flattened her palms against my chest.
“You’re beautiful.”
Her gaze flicked to mine and held at the lack of teasing in my tone.
I let my fingers trace the edge of her waist, slow and deliberate. She curled her fingers into the front of my shirt, pulling me closer.
I leaned in and kissed her—slow, deep, a little smiling at first, then not at all. Her hands slid up to my shoulders, her mouth moving with mine like we’d been waiting all day for this moment.
Maybe we had.
She rose to her toes, shifting closer, and I caught her hips, dragging her the last inch in until there was no space left. Her laugh was muffled against my mouth, low and breathless and entirely unfair.
And then I felt it.
Eyes. Judging ones.
I cracked one eye open and glanced to the side.
Pippin. On the windowsill. Staring. Unblinking. Furry, feline disapproval radiating from every inch of his ginger menace frame.
I broke the kiss and groaned. “We’re relocating.”
Saoirse blinked at me, dazed and pink-cheeked. “What?”
“The cat is looking at me.”
Her laughter came in a startled burst as I grabbed her hand and tugged her down the hallway.
“You’re a trained Royal Marine.” She gasped the reminder between kisses as we bumped off the wall, and I paused long enough to yank her shirt over her head. “But God forbid the cat watches you get lucky?”
“He judges , Saoirse. I can feel it.”
“You’re such a coward.”
“Guilty. Bedroom. Now.”
She grinned, grabbed my belt, and tugged. “Then move, Marine.”
And I did. Happily.
Somewhere between the hallway and the doorway, she pulled me in again, and my back hit the frame with a quiet thump. Her hands were under my shirt, cool palms against warm skin, and the sound I made had her smirking into my mouth.
“Distracting,” I muttered again, voice rough now.
She bit her lip, utterly unapologetic. “You already said that.”
“Still true.”
I let my hands roam with the confidence that came from knowing she was mine, and I was hers. She made a soft, delighted sound when I scraped my stubble along her throat, and I filed it away like it was classified intel. Important. Irrefutable.
We laughed into each other’s skin, half-drunk on familiarity and heat.
We shed clothes between kisses, half on purpose, half by accident.
She shoved my jeans down, and I tugged her underwear off with my teeth for the pleasure of hearing her gasp.
We tumbled onto the bed, got tangled in the duvet, elbowed each other, swore under our breath, and laughed through it all.
She called me a menace. I called her one back. She kissed me to shut me up. It worked.
And still, somehow, it meant more than it should’ve—every grin, every stumble. Because this wasn’t simple lust. Wasn’t only muscle memory and momentum. It was trust. The kind you didn’t ask for. The kind you were given.
When I finally moved over her—slow, steady, like I had all the time in the world—she arched up, wrapped herself around me.
“Right here. With you.”
Not a question. Not a claim. Just the simplest truth as I slid into her.
Our rhythm wasn’t frantic. It was deep. Intentional.
The kind of pace you fall into when you already know the person beneath your hands.
Matched breathing and tangled limbs, muffled moans and whispered yeses.
Her fingers dug into my shoulders when I hit the right angle.
I kissed the sound from her throat and felt her shiver all the way through—and I held on to it.
To her. Like it was more than pleasure. Like it was proof.
It was the middle of everything. The middle of a life we were still figuring out. Only skin and breath and want wrapped in something I hadn’t let myself believe I could still have.
When she came, it was with her head tucked under my chin, her breath catching, and my name on her lips like it belonged there.
And when I followed, it was with her hand over my heart. Like she’d put it there on purpose.
We didn’t move for a while. Not because we couldn’t, but because neither of us wanted to. The room was warm, the watery afternoon light slanting low through the curtains, and her skin was pressed to mine in a way that made the rest of the world feel optional.
Her leg was hooked lazily over mine, fingers tracing idle patterns along my chest. My hand rested at the dip of her spine, right where she fit against me like she was always meant to be there.
“You’re crushing half the duvet.” She muttered it into my shoulder, though there wasn’t an ounce of complaint in her voice.
I kissed the top of her head. “It’ll survive.”
She hummed, amused, then went quiet again.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open, and we both turned our heads in time to see Pippin hop up onto the dresser with all the grace of a feline judge stepping into court. His tail flicked. His eyes narrowed.
“Oh, for the love of…” Saoirse sighed. “Do you mind?”
Pippin blinked once. Slowly. Like he absolutely did not mind, and also intended to report us to the proper authorities.
I couldn’t help the laugh that rumbled low in my chest. “I think we’ve offended his delicate sensibilities.”
“Again,” Saoirse added, deadpan.
I turned to her, letting my fingers brush her jaw, slow and fond. “You’re beautiful when you’re scandalizing the cat.”
That got me a snort and an affectionate shove. “We are never getting this laundry done, are we?”
I thought of the forgotten basket on the floor of the lounge, half-unfolded shirts and socks spilling out like they’d given up on us, and grinned. “Nope. But honestly? Worth it.”