Chapter 19 – Morgan #2
He leaned casually against the doorway of his office, arms crossed, watching me like he had all the patience in the world. Like my problems were his problems, and he was prepared to solve them all.
His lips twitched. "Can't be that hard."
I felt a laugh bubble up despite everything. "You've been watching YouTube tutorials in your free time?"
His gaze flicked over me, lazy, assessing. Heat flickered in those dark depths, reminding me of what had happened between us just hours ago. "No. But I've seen Gwen do it before. Snip at the bottom, unravel. I can do that."
I blinked. "You're serious?"
He nodded, pushing off from the doorframe and moving closer. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, that intoxicating mix of Sandalwood and cedar that always made my knees weak.
I hesitated. How the hell did I tell him I didn't want him in my hair like that? It was too intimate. Taking out braids was messy, time-consuming, and frustrating. The longer they stayed in, the more buildup formed at the roots. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't sexy. It was just... real.
And maybe that was what scared me most. The realness of it. The intimacy of letting him see me at my most unglamorous, most vulnerable.
"You just..." I muttered. "It's not a cute process."
Lance huffed out a laugh and held up his hand, ticking off fingers like he was making a list.
"I've heard you singing 'Living on a Prayer' in the shower."
I stiffened, heat flooding my cheeks.
"I've picked you up, covered in puke, after a party."
I scowled at the memory. "You promised never to bring that up."
He ignored me, continuing his count with infuriating calm.
"I've seen you sit in poop on the subway."
The wash of embarrassment hit me hard and I shuddered. I literally hadn’t been looking where I’d been sitting. "Oh my God." He'd been the one to run to the nearest store to buy me a pair of leggings.
His lips twitched, and something soft entered his eyes. Something that looked almost like tenderness. "Morgan. I've seen worse. I can handle your braids."
The simple words hit me harder than they should have. Because they weren't really about braids, were they? They were about acceptance. About seeing all of me—the messy, imperfect, unglamorous parts—and not running.
I chewed on my lip, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. This wasn't about the braids. Or at least not just about the braids. No one would do things like that for you if they didn't truly love you. It was the ultimate in seeing you and never judging.
And now I knew about the co-op. About the building he'd bought and put in my name. About all the ways he'd been taking care of me, protecting me, loving me, even when I couldn't see it.
Lance checked the time on his watch. "It's seven. We don't have all night. Do you want my help or not?"
The question hung between us, loaded with meaning. He wasn't just asking about my hair. He was asking if I was ready to let him back in. If I was ready to stop running and start trusting.
I exhaled, my decision made. "Fine."
His answering smile was small but genuine, and it did things to my heart that I wasn't ready to examine too closely.
He flexed his fingers, rolling up his sleeves like he was preparing for battle. "Where do you want me?"
I hesitated again, my pulse jumping at the unintentional double entendre.
The best way to do this would be for him to sit on the couch while I sat between his knees.
But that felt dangerous. Too close. Too intimate.
Too much like the old days when we'd spend entire evenings tangled together on that same couch.
Nope.
That was too much. Too close.
You don’t have a choice.
I pointed at the couch, trying to keep my voice steady. "Sit. I'll grab a cushion and sit between your knees."
Lance sank into the leather with fluid grace, his long legs spreading to make room for me. "Come on, Spitfire. I don't bite. "
Except he did bite. And you love it when he does.
I cleared my throat as the use of my nickname sent warmth spiraling through me.
I hesitated for a moment before grabbing scissors out of my sewing bag and settling between his knees. Then I exhaled and showed him where my natural hair ended, trying to ignore the way his breath ghosted across my neck. "Just start unraveling here."
Lance watched me work with the focused intensity he brought to everything, then mirrored my movements. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they found the end of a braid, careful not to tug too hard.
And then, he did something different. A light tug from the top of the braid, and suddenly, my braid slid apart in seconds.
I turned to face him, eyes wide with surprise. "What witchcraft is this?"
He blinked, looking almost embarrassed by how easy he'd made it look. "Well... the braid looked pretty uniform, so I just pulled out one of the strands." He demonstrated again, the braid unraveling instantly in his hands. "And now it's out."
I stared at him, mouth slightly open. I'd been struggling with the tedious process of unraveling each braid section by section, and he'd figured out the trick in thirty seconds.
He smirked, that cocky half-smile that always made my stomach flutter. "Told you I could help."
"How the hell did you do that?"
He shrugged, already moving on to the next braid with newfound confidence. "Seemed logical."
I had nothing to say to that. No comeback, no sarcastic retort. Just pure, helpless attraction to this man who could go from deadly assassin to gentle caretaker to problem-solving genius in the span of minutes.
His fingers worked through my hair with methodical patience, each released braid falling free around my shoulders. The intimacy of it was overwhelming—his hands in my hair, his body warm and solid behind me, the quiet focus he brought to the task.
"Morgan," he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges.
"Yeah?"
"I heard you on the phone with Miriam."
My heart stopped. Of course he had.
"About the co-op," he continued quietly.
"You bought me a building," I said, the words still sounding surreal even as they left my mouth.
His hands stilled in my hair for a moment before resuming their gentle work. "I wanted you to have something that was yours. Something no one could take away."
The simple explanation broke something open in my chest. Because that was Lance, wasn't it? Thinking ten steps ahead, making sure I was protected and provided for, even when he thought he might lose me.
"You put it in my name," I whispered.
"Of course I did."
His voice was matter-of-fact, like buying buildings for people was something he did every Tuesday.
"It's yours, Morgan. It was always meant to be yours."
The tears came then, hot and fast and impossible to stop. Not tears of sadness or anger, but something deeper. Something that felt like hope and gratitude and love all tangled together.
He grinned, his hands never pausing in their work. "Relax. I've got you."
And in that moment, sitting between his knees with his fingers gentle in my hair and his quiet care surrounding me like a blanket, my heart fully thawed.
He had me. He'd always had me.
And maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop fighting it.