Chapter 15
MICAH
The next morning, I stood in Joy's kitchen, staring at the coffee maker like it held answers I didn't have questions for yet.
The sex had been ... more than I'd expected.
Both times. The first—careful, claiming, raw in a way that made my chest tight just thinking about it.
The second—after we'd talked, after she'd been honest in a way that terrified me—had been different.
Slower. Deeper. Like I was trying to memorize her from the inside out.
And now, I was making coffee in her kitchen while she slept in the next room, her body warm and loose in sheets that smelled like us.
What the hell was I doing?
I'd never had a relationship in my life.
Not a real one.
I'd convinced myself years ago that I was cursed that way. That men like me—men who'd seen what I'd seen, done what I'd done—didn't get to keep soft things. We got missions. Objectives. Targets.
We got one-night stands in foreign cities where no one asked your real name.
We got doorway handjobs from women who didn't care about your scars because they'd be gone before morning.
We got alone.
And I'd resigned myself to that. Accepted it the way a monk accepts celibacy—not because I wanted it, but because it was the only path that made sense.
Except now, I was standing in a sunny kitchen above a bakery that smelled like sugar, making coffee for a woman who'd looked at me like I wasn't broken, and my brain was doing something I didn't recognize.
It was planning.
Not an extraction. Not an op. Not an exit strategy.
It was planning a future.
The thought should've terrified me.
It didn't.
That terrified me more.
I opened her fridge—small, organized, full of practical things like eggs and butter and vegetables that looked like they'd been bought with intention. There was a jar of raspberry jam on the shelf, homemade by the look of it, with a handwritten label that said Momma's in looping script.
I pulled out eggs. Butter. Cheese. Bell pepper.
My hands moved on autopilot, the way they did when I was field-stripping a weapon or packing a go-bag. Muscle memory. Efficiency.
But this wasn't survival.
This was ... care.
I cracked eggs into a bowl, whisked them with more focus than they deserved, and tried not to think about the fact that Joy might be pregnant.
Tried not to think about how that thought—the one that should've sent me running—didn't scare me the way it should have.
Where the hell did that come from?
An image flashed through my mind—my mother, smiling. Not the tired smile she'd worn near the end, when grief and raising seven boys alone had worn her down to something sharp and fragile. The real smile. The one from before.
Before my father left.
Before everything fell apart.
I shoved the thought away hard, focusing on the pan heating on the stove, the butter sizzling as it melted.
My mother.
The rock of our family. The only reason any of us survived after Dad poofed into whatever hole he'd been sucked into. She'd held us together with sheer will and love so fierce it burned.
Her death had been the final dagger in my flagging soul.
The thing that turned me from functional to something darker. Something colder.
I poured the eggs into the pan, added cheese and peppers, focused on the simple mechanics of folding an omelet instead of the hollow ache in my chest.
Two omelets. Toast with raspberry jam. And—because I couldn't help myself—a daisy plucked from the jar on the windowsill, laid across one of the plates like an apology I didn't know how to say out loud.
When I carried the plates into the bedroom, Joy was awake.
Propped up against the pillows, blonde hair loose and tangled, wearing nothing but the sheet pulled up to her chest. She looked soft. Sleepy. Beautiful in a way that made my throat tight.
When she saw the plates, she smiled.
That smile.
It hit me like a gut punch.
"Breakfast in bed?" she said, eyes lighting up. "I've never had breakfast in bed."
I set the plates down carefully on the bed between us. "Never?"
"Well," she amended, "not since I got strep throat in fifth grade and my momma took care of me for two days. But that doesn't really count."
I settled onto the bed beside her, handing her a fork. "Your mom sounds like she was good at that."
Joy nodded, taking a bite of omelet. Her eyes closed briefly, a soft sound of approval escaping her. "She was. Is. She's ... she's everything."
Something in my chest shifted.
"My mom used to let us sleep in her bed when we were sick," I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. "All of us. Seven boys, piled in like puppies. She'd make soup and read to us and pretend she wasn't exhausted."
Joy's gaze softened. "That sounds perfect."
"It was the safest I ever felt," I admitted. Then paused, frowning. "Isn't that strange?"
"No," Joy said immediately. "It's not strange at all."
I stared at my plate, not sure what to do with the weight of that memory now that it was out in the open.
Joy shifted closer, her knee brushing mine under the sheet. "Tell me about your family."
I took a bite of toast, chewing slowly, buying time.
"Six brothers," I said finally. "All military, like me. Grew up in Montana. Middle of nowhere. We camped, hunted, fished, rode horses when we could afford to keep them. Tended livestock. Generally made our mother want to pull her hair out."
Joy smiled. "I doubt that."
I didn't disagree.
Because she was right.
We'd been good kids. Rough around the edges, sure. Wild in the way boys raised in the mountains were wild. But good.
Up until my father died. Or disappeared. Or whatever the hell had happened to him.
After that, things changed.
I changed.
But I didn't tell Joy that. My life was changing, but not that fast. Not yet.
Instead, I let her fill the silence.
And she did—easily, naturally, like she was used to carrying conversations when other people went quiet.
She told me about her shop. About Britney, who was young and eager and sometimes tried too hard.
About brides who cried over bouquets and grooms who forgot anniversaries and needed last-minute arrangements.
About her family on Wadmalaw Island—her parents, her siblings, the farm that had raised them all.
Her voice washed over me, warm and steady, and I realized something startling.
If I lost my voice forever, I could listen to her for an eternity.
How strange to think that way.
How dangerous.
I finished my omelet and reached for the coffee pot I'd brought in. "Refill?"
She held out her mug with a smile. "Please."
I poured, watching the steam curl up between us, and felt something settle.
Peace, maybe.
Or the beginning of it.
Then both our phones buzzed.
The sound cut through the quiet like a blade.
Joy reached for hers on the nightstand. I grabbed mine from my jeans, still crumpled on the floor.
The message was short: Someone I'd like you to meet. When you're available. -S
Silas.
I glanced at Joy. She was frowning at her screen, her expression shifting from relaxed to stressed in the space of a heartbeat.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
She looked up, apologetic. "There's been a screw-up with a big order. I need to go to the shop."
"Now?"
"Yeah." She was already moving, sliding out of bed, reaching for clothes. "I'm sorry. This is—it's a mess. The wholesaler sent the wrong varieties and we have an event tonight and—"
"Hey." I caught her wrist gently. "It's fine. Go."
She paused, meeting my eyes. "You're sure?"
"Yeah."
She leaned in and kissed me—quick, soft, distracted—then pulled away and started dressing in earnest.
I couldn't stop watching her.
The way she moved. The way sunlight caught in her hair. The curve of her back as she pulled on her shirt, the glimpse of pale skin before it disappeared under fabric.
She caught me staring and smiled, flushed. "You can save your ogling for later."
"I'll ogle as much as I want, thank you very much," I said.
Her laugh was bright and real, and it did something to my chest that felt like a wound opening and closing at the same time.
Once she was dressed and freshened up in the bathroom, she crossed back to the bed, skirt brushing her thighs as she moved, and kissed me again. She lingered longer this time, her hand on my jaw, her mouth soft and warm.
"Lock up on your way out?" she said against my lips.
"Yeah."
She grabbed her bag and was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, her footsteps quick on the stairs.
And then I was alone.
In her space.
Surrounded by her things.
I should've left immediately. Should've cleaned up, locked the door, and gotten back to the Palmetto Rose to wait for Silas's next move.
Instead, I stayed.
I washed the dishes first. Dried them. Put them away in the cabinets where they belonged, guessing at the right spots based on the order I found them in.
Then I made the bed.
It should've been simple. Sheets. Blankets. Pillows arranged the way they'd been before I'd wrecked them.
But I lingered.
Standing there in the quiet, smoothing the quilt, I couldn't stop thinking about her naked in this bed. Couldn't stop thinking about the way she'd looked at me—open, trusting, wanting.
The way she'd tasted when I'd pressed my face between her thighs and made her come undone.
The sounds she'd made.
The way her body had tightened around me when I'd finally pushed inside her.
Get it together, Dane.
I finished making the bed with more force than necessary, fluffing the pillows like they'd personally offended me, then stepped back and surveyed the room.
Clean. Neat. Like I'd never been there.
Except, I had.
And something told me I'd be back.
I grabbed my jacket, checked my pockets for keys and phone, and headed for the door.
Locked it behind me, tested the handle twice to make sure.
Then I stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at the door like it might open again and pull me back inside.
It didn't.
I turned and walked down the stairs, the smell of the bakery wrapping around me one last time before I stepped out onto the street.
The city was alive. Tourists. Locals. The hum of Charleston doing what it always did—existing, thriving, moving forward without caring who got left behind.
I pulled out my phone and typed a response to Silas: On my way.
Then I started walking, hands in my pockets, thoughts circling back to Joy, despite my best efforts.
To the way she'd looked at me when I'd told her about my mother.
To the way she'd said my name when she came.
To the way she'd invited me into her space like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I had no idea that everything was about to change.
Again.
But if I'd known, I'm not sure it would've stopped me.
Because for the first time in years, I wasn't running toward danger or away from it.
I was moving toward something else entirely.
And that was the most terrifying mission I'd ever been on.