5. Mark #3
"I know you reread the same three books when you're stressed," I say instead of the catalog that would take an hour to deliver. "Jane Eyre, The Secret Garden, and something called The Blue Castle."
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. "Those are comfort reads."
"I figured. You've read Jane Eyre twice since last week."
"It's been a stressful semester." She takes the bite, chews thoughtfully. "What else?"
"You talk to yourself when you're cooking. Usually to complain about the stove, which doesn't heat evenly."
"The left burner barely works."
"I know. You compensate by moving the pan every few minutes."
"That's a lot of watching," she says quietly.
"Yes."
"Every day?"
"Every day."
She sets her fork down, leans back in her chair. The morning sun has shifted, casting new shadows across the table, and her hair catches the light in a way that makes it look almost blue.
"What did you think?" The question comes out softer than her usual tone. "When you were watching. What did you think about me?"
The truth sits in my throat, complete and unvarnished.
That I thought she was beautiful, yes, but also that I thought she was handling too much alone.
That she was funnier than she let anyone see, sharper than she let anyone know, stronger than anyone had a right to expect from someone paying her own way through college with no safety net.
That I thought she deserved better than what she had. That I wanted to be the one to give it to her.
"I thought you were remarkable," I say instead of the longer version. "I thought you were managing more than you should have to manage."
"And?"
"And I thought about what it would be like if you didn't have to manage it alone."
"Is that what this is?" she asks. "You helping me not manage alone?"
"Partly."
"What's the other part?"
The honest answer is that the other part is obsession refined into something that looks like care but feels like possession.
That I want her here not just because she needs help, but because I need her here.
That watching her through cameras for weeks made me realize my house is too quiet, my life too controlled, my bed too empty for a man who's discovered he wants someone to come home to.
That I want her pregnant and permanent and mine in ways that have nothing to do with helping and everything to do with keeping.
"The other part is selfish," I tell her instead.
"How selfish?"
She's leaning forward now, and the nightgown has shifted to reveal more of her throat, the faint marks I left there last night. Her coffee sits forgotten in front of her.
"Selfish enough that I'm not letting you go back to that apartment."
"Even if I wanted to?"
"Do you want to?"
"No," she says finally. "I don't want to go back."
"Good." My voice has dropped without my permission, gone rougher in a way that makes her breathing change. "Because I wasn't planning to let you."
She swallows, and I watch the movement in her throat. "Even if I argued?"
"You can argue all you want. You're staying."
The bluntness of it should probably alarm her. Instead, her pupils dilate, and she shifts slightly in her chair in a way that tells me the possessiveness is landing exactly where I intended it to.
"That's very presumptuous," she says, but there's no heat in it. Just the beginning of something that sounds like flirting.
"It's accurate."
"Same thing, in your case."
"You think you have me figured out?" I ask.
"I think you're not as mysterious as you probably want to be."
"What do you think you know?"
She tilts her head, considering. "I think you're used to getting what you want. I think you decided you wanted me and now you're making it happen. I think you tell yourself it's for my benefit, but really it's because you don't know how to want something and not take it."
The accuracy of it hits like cold water. She's been here less than twenty-four hours and she's reading me with the kind of precision that took my business associates years to develop.
"And?" I prompt.
"And I think I don't mind."
The admission changes everything. The morning air, the distance between us, the careful boundaries we've been maintaining around this conversation. She's not just accepting what I'm offering—she's admitting she wants it.
I stand, move around the table again. This time when I reach her, I don't stop at her chair. My hand curves around the back of her neck, thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
"You should mind," I tell her, though I'm already leaning down.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not going to be reasonable about you."
Her breath catches, and she tilts her face up toward mine. "I don't want you to be reasonable."
The kiss, when it comes, tastes like coffee and morning sunlight and the decision to stop pretending this is anything other than what it is. I'm claiming her mouth the same way I claimed her body last night, the same way I'll claim every morning we have together from now on.
She makes a soft sound against my lips, and her hand comes up to fist in my shirt, pulling me closer across the space between us.
She's staying, and this is my life now.