Chapter 5
LUCY
B ack at the cabin, Damien raises an eyebrow as I shrug off my jacket and kick off my shoes. “Hungry?”
I grin at him, the afterglow from our sex at the hot springs still humming through my veins. “Starving. For food this time,” I tease, winking at him.
His laugh is rich and warm, filling the cabin in a way that makes my heart flutter. We move to the kitchen together, and I open the refrigerator to survey our options. I spot two thick steaks wrapped in butcher paper and know that’s exactly what I want.
“These look promising,” I say, pulling them out and holding them up for Damien to see.
“Ghost Security stocks the good stuff,” Damien says, taking the steaks from me. “I can get these seasoned and on the grill. Can you handle the sides?”
I open the refrigerator again, finding fresh greens, cherry tomatoes, and a block of cheese. “Of course. If I can find everything, I’ll make that vinaigrette you always liked.”
“Perfect.” Damien looks at me with such openness and happiness in his eyes that it takes my breath away. So long, I’ve wanted to reconnect, even if only to vent all the frustrations and sadness I’ve carried for so long. But this? This is so much better than I could have imagined.
We move around the small kitchen with surprising coordination, considering we haven’t done this in eight years. I like this new version of how we cook together.
“Need help with that?” he asks, glancing over as I struggle to core a tomato with an unexpectedly dull knife.
“I’ve got it.” But as I reach for a better knife, we collide gently at the counter, and he bumps his hip against mine.
Fresh desire sparks in me, and my core pulses with lust as I lean into him.
Part of me knows I should be questioning whether this will last beyond the present, but if that’s all it will be, I’m going to spend every second enjoying it instead of overanalyzing it.
“Sorry,” Damien murmurs, grinning at me like he’s anything but, and he doesn’t move away.
His hand finds the small of my back and slips down to cup my ass.
“Here, let me help.” He moves behind me as I work on mincing garlic for the vinaigrette, his chest pressing against my back as his hands cover mine on the knife.
“You look like you could use some help.”
I let my head tilt toward his shoulder, breathing in his scent as his steady hands guide mine. The garlic doesn’t need this much attention, and we both know it.
“Better?” he murmurs.
“Much.” I turn in the circle of his arms, standing on my tiptoes as I give him a tender kiss. Pure joy doesn’t even describe how happy I am right now. I brush away a smudge of seasoning from his cheek, letting my touch linger.
His eyes darken. “Lucy...”
“What?” I ask innocently, though my pulse is racing.
Instead of answering, I turn and dip my finger into the vinaigrette I’ve been whisking and hold it up to his lips. “Taste? I think it needs something.”
I meet his eyes as he closes his mouth around my finger and licks slowly. When his teeth graze over my fingertip, my knees buckle from wild desire.
“Good?” I ask breathlessly. Electric lust pings between us, and it almost feels like the way we used to be, like we were never apart.
“Perfect,” he says, voice rough.
Damien steps away and pours a finger of bourbon into two glasses. “This calls for celebration.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“Us.”
When we sit down to eat, I choose the chair beside him instead of across the table. Our knees brush under the wooden surface, and neither of us moves away. The contact feels natural, right, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of fumbling our way back to each other.
“This is incredible,” I say, cutting into the perfectly cooked steak. “When did you learn to grill like this?”
“Necessity. When you’re living off MREs for months, you learn to appreciate real food.” He watches me steal a bite from his plate with an amused smile. “Help yourself.”
“Mine’s exactly the same.”
“Sure it is.” But he doesn’t protest when I do it again; he just cuts off a piece of his and offers it to me on his fork.
Everything feels so romantic, but it’s more than that. I’ve missed the familiarity and comfort of Damien for eight long years.
“Tell me something,” I say, swirling wine in my glass. “What’s the strangest thing that happened to you while you were away?”
Damien considers this, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Kazakhstan, my sixth deployment. We got snowed in for three days with this guy, Coltrane. He was built like a tank and scared of nothing. Except spiders.”
I laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack. We were in this abandoned compound, and he saw this tiny house spider—probably smaller than a dime—and lost it. Started reciting prayers, climbed on a chair, the whole nine yards.” Damien’s eyes light up with the memory. “Took three of us to convince him it was gone.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest. “That’s terrible. I love it.”
We trade stories back and forth—light moments, funny memories, the highlights of our lives apart. We carefully avoid the darker stuff, the trauma and heartbreak and long lonely nights. Tonight is for rediscovering joy.
I look around the cabin, taking in the flickering candles, the remnants of our meal, and the man beside me whose knee is still pressed against mine. A soft smile spreads across my face.
“This feels like we never left off,” I say quietly.
“Being with you again is better than I remembered. So much better,” he echoes, his voice warm with affection.
The one thought overwhelming me is that I don’t want this week to end.
After we clear the table together, moving in that same easy rhythm, I reach for his hand without hesitation. The dishes can wait until morning.
“My bed or yours?” I ask with a playful glance.
“Yours.”
We head up to my bedroom, his hand on the small of my back, mine curled around his wrist. There’s less urgency now because we know neither is going anywhere.
In the bathroom, we get ready for bed side by side.
I steal his t-shirt from where he’s draped it over the towel rack, pulling it on over my underwear.
He’s in his boxers, and this feels so normal.
My heart aches. Is it possible we can start anew?
That this can be more than a random week of unexpected bliss?
“That looks better on you than it does on me,” he says, watching me in the mirror as I brush my teeth.
I grin around my toothbrush, bumping his hip with mine.
In bed, I move so I’m tucked into his side, my hand resting over his heart, his arm wrapped securely around me.
He presses a soft kiss to my temple. “Comfortable?”
“Mmm.” I nuzzle closer, breathing in his warmth. “Absolutely.”
We lie in silence for a while, listening to the wind in the trees outside and the steady rhythm of each other’s breathing. The day settles around us like a blanket—the morning’s revelations, the afternoon’s passion, the evening’s quiet domesticity.
“You okay?” he asks softly in the darkness.
“Yeah.” I press a kiss to his chest, tasting salt and soap and home. “I’m happy.”
It’s true. For the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly as it should be between us. We’re not the same people we were in college, but we still have the same electric magic between us.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. In the morning, I’ll probably overthink this. But right now, wrapped in his arms, everything feels possible.
And I want everything with Damien.