Chapter 51
Iwoke up on his chest.
His skin was warm beneath my cheek, sun-kissed and smooth, the steady thump of his heartbeat anchoring me in the moment like nothing ever had.
Ansel.
His arm was around me, hand splayed between my shoulder blades, as though even in sleep, he didn’t want to let me go. I breathed in slowly, chest rising with his. We fit like that — easy, quiet, like we’d been doing this for years.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.
Not because I feared waking him. But because I didn’t want to break the spell. The sunlight leaking through the window painted the room gold. His shirt still clung to my body — oversized, warm from his skin. My thighs still ached faintly from being held apart. From the way he’d worshipped me.
Everything inside me felt… soft.
Like I’d come apart and been pieced back together with silk and starlight and the kind of care that wasn’t supposed to exist in real life.
And then—
The tears came.
Just a few at first. Barely there wetness in the corners of my eyes. But I couldn’t stop them.
Because I’d never felt this safe. Because no one had ever touched me like I was precious. No one had held me like I was theirs. Even as a married woman, with the same man for almost a decade — I’d never known a feeling of safety quite like this.
And because for the first time in what felt like a thousand years, I didn’t feel hollow.
I felt full.
Whole.
Wanted.
“Hey — hey,” Ansel’s voice was suddenly there, thick with sleep and worry as he jolted upright, pulling me with him. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Did I — shit, did I hurt you?”
“No,” I whispered, eyes squeezed shut. “No, I’m okay.”
“You’re crying — Junie, baby — look at me—”
I pressed my face to his chest, trying to breathe through the sob building in my throat. “I’m not sad,” I managed, voice breaking.
His hand curved around my jaw, coaxing my face up, his brows drawn together in panic even as he tried to be gentle. “Then what is it? What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t know I was allowed to feel like this. Not after… Not after so long of not.”
His face cracked open.
Just… cracked. Like he wasn’t prepared for that answer. Like it shattered him. “Oh, Juniper,” he said, voice a low ache, like he was breaking in time with me. “You are. You always were.”
I let out a shaking breath. “I don’t think anyone’s ever held me like this. Like I mattered. Like they wanted to.”
He kissed my forehead. My cheeks. My tears.
Then my mouth.
And it wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t wild. It was steady. Certain. The kind of kiss that promises things without speaking.
When he pulled back, his thumb brushed under my eye.
“Then let me show you,” he said. “Every day. Every fucking day, if that’s what it takes.” I curled my fingers against his arms and let myself cry again. This time, not out of fear or grief or pain.
He laid us back down, one hand in my hair, curling through my locks, holding me against him as I rode this wave of not-grief.
I must have fallen asleep again, because I woke to the smell of sugar.
And cinnamon?
I blinked, lashes sticky with dried tears, the soft press of warmth at my back pulling me from the edges of sleep.
Ansel’s chest was curled along my spine, his arm banded around my waist, hand resting low.
Possessive. Like he might have drifted back to sleep but didn’t trust the world not to take me from him.
I didn’t move, not yet. Just sank into the weight of him. The silence was golden — the kind that only comes after you’ve been seen and held and wanted so thoroughly that your body forgets how to guard itself.
“You awake, kid?” he murmured against the crown of my head, voice hoarse.
“Mm,” I managed.
He kissed me there. The tip of my shoulder. The curve where neck met jaw. “I made French toast.”
“You what?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He smiled against my skin. “I’m great at breakfast, remember?”
I rolled over, still groggy, hair a mess, cheeks flushed. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“Only an hour, maybe.” He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “Wanted to let you sleep. You looked like a dream I didn’t wanna wake up from.”
“Corny,” I muttered, even as my face caught fire.
He kissed my nose. “True.”
A silence settled around us. I traced his bicep where it stretched under the sleeve of a soft old t-shirt. He let me. Let me explore him with sleep-slow fingers, like I was rediscovering a map I used to dream about.
He propped himself up on one elbow and grinned. “Want it in bed or want me to carry you to the kitchen like the goddess you are?”
I gave him a look. “You’re gonna feed me like I’m Aphrodite?”
“Careful, sweetheart. I’d hate to get cursed by the goddess of beauty for what I’m thinking right now.”
I laughed, pressing my face into the curve of his throat. “… I want it here.”
He scooted out over the side of the bed and came back quickly with a plate already made, a folded napkin, a fork tucked beside it. Syrup glistened on golden toast, dusted with powdered sugar. Of course he’d made it fancy. Of course, it smelled like a five-star hotel breakfast.
“You made this?” I whispered, suddenly and stupidly close to tears again.
“I made this,” he confirmed. “And I’d do it again.”
He fed me the first bite and… I moaned around it. “Holy shit.”
“Better than the orgasm?”
“Ansel.”
He smirked. “Just checking.”
We shared the plate between us. I let him hold the fork. Let him graze it against my lips like it was a sin to eat without his help. Syrup dripped down my chin, and he licked it off, slowly and smugly.
And grinning. Always grinning.
If fourteen-year-old me could see me right now? She would combust. Tangled up in bed with Eryk Moonstrider while he fed me breakfast?
When we were finished, he set the plate aside and pulled me back into him, our limbs tangled, his fingers trailing senselessly across my skin underneath the covers. My eyes drifted shut as he held me.
“Junie?” he said, quietly, after several moments of comfortable quiet.
“Mhm?”
“You cried earlier.”
I didn’t open my eyes. “I know.”
The plate was gone. My skin was warm. I was still wearing his shirt and nothing else, and Ansel was curled around me like I was some small, precious thing he’d been entrusted with.
He’d already said it.
Days ago.
Dropped the words like they were truth, like he wasn’t afraid of what they might cost him. Like loving me wasn’t dangerous. And I hadn’t said a thing.
But now, in the quiet, wrapped in his arms, all I wanted was to say it back. To press it to his mouth and feel it returned. “I could live here,” I murmured.
“In my bed?” he teased, nose nuzzling against my temple. “Naked and spoiled?”
“In your arms.”
The silence stretched. His breath caught.
Fuck.
I felt it hit — hard — like I’d cracked open without meaning to.
I panicked. “I just meant — because you’re warm. And it’s quiet. And… you made French toast.”
Ansel shifted just enough to look at me. His expression was so soft, it made my heart hurt. “You know you don’t have to walk it back,” he said.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
I swallowed. “I just… I don’t want to break anything. Not between us. Not in me.”
“You’re not breaking anything,” he said. “You’re trying not to feel too much. But… it’s alright if you already do.”
My chest seized. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? I love you.”
My eyes snapped shut.
“You know that,” he said gently. “You’ve known that. And I’m not going anywhere. So when you’re ready… you’ll say it.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”
He brushed his thumb along my cheek. “That’s okay. I’ll wait.”
And then he kissed me. Not hungry. Not greedy. Just there. Steady. Real.
I let him pull me close again, burying my face in the curve of his neck. “Ansel,” my voice snagged. “What if I’m never ready? What then?”
I felt his lips turned upwards. “Then I will love you either way. I just hope you’ll let me stay here, with you. I don’t need the words, kid. I’ll never need the words, as long as you’re here like this.”
Fuck, I didn’t deserve him. I knew in my heart that I loved him — or I was very near to being there. That lingering fear of being left and hurt and alone just… trapped the words inside of my head.