Chapter 19 Amelia
Amelia
I wake up in Wyatt's bed feeling more rested than I have in months, maybe years.
The early morning light is just starting to filter through the curtains, painting everything in soft shades of gray and gold.
Wyatt is still asleep beside me, one arm thrown over his head, his face peaceful in a way I rarely see when he's awake.
There's always this tension he carries during the day, this awareness of everything he needs to do and everyone who depends on him.
But asleep, he looks younger, softer, and I let myself watch him for a moment before carefully extracting myself from the bed.
My clothes from yesterday are scattered across the floor, and I gather them quietly, pulling them on with movements I hope are silent enough not to wake him.
He needs the sleep. They all do. This house runs on too little rest and too much coffee, everyone pushing themselves past their limits trying to keep everything together.
I slip out of his room and down the hallway, flipping on every light switch I pass.
The hallway, the stairwell, the living room, the kitchen.
Each one floods the space with brightness that pushes back the shadows, makes everything feel safer.
It's a compulsion I can't shake, this need for light, for the ability to see every corner and know nothing's hiding there waiting to hurt me.
The house is quiet in that peaceful way that only happens in the early morning before anyone else is awake.
I check the time on the microwave. Five forty-five.
Earlier than I usually get up, but my body is still adjusting to actually sleeping through the night without nightmares jolting me awake every few hours.
I decide to make something special for breakfast. These past two weeks have been so good, better than I ever thought possible, and I want to do something to show my appreciation. To prove that I'm not just taking and taking without giving anything back.
I find all the ingredients I need for a streusel coffee cake, one of those recipes my mom used to make on special occasions.
The kind that makes the whole house smell like cinnamon and butter and home.
I work quietly, creaming butter and sugar, mixing in eggs and vanilla, folding in flour with movements that are automatic from years of practice.
There's something meditative about baking. The precise measurements, the careful folding, the way everything comes together in stages to create something greater than the sum of its parts. My hands know what to do even when my brain is elsewhere, lost in thoughts about last night.
About Wyatt's hands on my body, gentle and reverent. About the way he whispered that I was safe, that I was wanted, that this was making love instead of just having sex. About how I'd cried afterward and he'd held me like I was something precious instead of broken.
Heat floods my face just thinking about it. I've never felt like that before, never understood that intimacy could be tender instead of demanding. That someone could care about my pleasure as much as their own. That I could have control, could say stop or slow down or more and be listened to.
Vincent never gave me that. Vincent took what he wanted and made me feel grateful he wanted me at all, even when his touch left bruises and his words left scars deeper than anything physical.
But Wyatt is different. They're all different. Hunter with his quiet protectiveness, Silas with his thoughtful gestures, Wyatt with his easy affection. None of them make me feel small or worthless or like I should be grateful they tolerate my presence.
They make me feel wanted. Cherished, even. And I'm still trying to figure out how to accept that without waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I'm mixing the streusel topping when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
My heart jumps into my throat, that immediate spike of adrenaline that comes from years of being startled by Vincent's arrival.
But I force myself to breathe, to remember where I am.
This is the Kane house. I'm safe here. Nobody's going to hurt me.
Wyatt appears in the kitchen doorway, his hair mussed from sleep, wearing the same sleep pants from last night but no shirt. The morning light catches on the planes of his chest and stomach, and I have to actively look away before I get distracted.
"Morning," he says, his voice rough and deeper than usual. "You snuck out."
"I wanted to make breakfast," I explain, gesturing at the mixing bowl in front of me. "And I thought you could use the sleep."
He crosses the kitchen in a few strides, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. His chin rests on my shoulder, and I can feel the warmth of him all along my back. "I'd rather have woken up with you still there."
My hands still on the spoon I'm holding, my heart doing that stupid fluttering thing it does whenever he touches me. "I'm not very good at the morning after part. I never know what I'm supposed to do or say."
"You're supposed to wake me up with kisses," he murmurs against my ear, his breath warm on my skin. "And then we're supposed to lie there for a while being lazy before we have to adult and take care of kids."
I laugh despite my nerves, leaning back into him. "That sounds nice. Maybe next time."
"Next time," he agrees, and the certainty in his voice makes my chest warm. He's not treating last night like a one-time thing or a mistake. He's already planning for next time, already assuming there will be more nights together.
He turns me in his arms, his hands settling on my hips, and kisses me properly. It starts soft, just a gentle press of lips, but quickly deepens into something more heated. His tongue slides against mine and I make a small sound in my throat, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders.
Before I quite know how it happens, he's lifting me onto the counter, stepping between my legs, his hands sliding up my thighs in a way that makes my brain go fuzzy.
I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, losing myself in the feeling of his mouth on mine and his body pressed against me.
I'm so lost in the kiss that I almost miss the movement in my peripheral vision. Almost. But years of hypervigilance, of constantly watching for threats, means I catch it. Someone standing in the doorway, frozen.
Silas.
I break the kiss, my eyes finding his across the kitchen. He's wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt, his glasses already on, his dark hair still rumpled from sleep. And he's staring at us with an expression that makes my breath catch.
He doesn't look angry. Doesn't look judgmental or disgusted or any of the things I might have expected. He looks hungry. Longing. And underneath that, devastated, like he's watching something he desperately wants but thinks he can't have.
Our eyes meet and hold. The moment stretches out, heavy with tension and want and confusion. Wyatt has noticed him too, I can tell by the way his body has gone still against mine, though he doesn't pull away.
Then Silas moves. Slowly, deliberately, crossing the kitchen toward us with his eyes locked on mine the entire time.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, my hands tightening in Wyatt's hair without meaning to.
I don't know what's happening, don't understand the dynamics at play here, but I can't look away from Silas' dark eyes.
He stops right in front of us, close enough that I can smell his rain scent mixing with Wyatt's citrus. Close enough that if I leaned forward just slightly, I could touch him. His hand comes up slowly, cupping my face the way Wyatt had last night, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone.
Then he leans in, hovering just above my lips. Not kissing me, not taking, just waiting. Giving me the choice to close the distance if I want to. Giving me the power to say yes or no, to accept or reject him.
I close the distance.
His kiss is different from Wyatt's. Hungry but hesitant, like he's been starving for this but is still half-convinced I'm going to push him away. Like he's waiting for rejection even as he's kissing me, his hand trembling slightly against my face.
I kiss him back harder, trying to communicate without words that I want this, that I'm not going to reject him. His other hand comes up to frame my face and the kiss deepens, becoming more confident, more sure. When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
He manages a small smile, something genuine breaking through the uncertainty. "Good morning, sweetheart."
Then he does something that makes my brain short-circuit completely.
He reaches for Wyatt's hand, the one that's still resting on my thigh, and brings it to his lips.
The gesture is intimate and familiar, speaking of history and connection that I'm only just beginning to understand.
A kiss pressed to Wyatt's knuckles, tender and full of meaning, before he releases him and steps back.
"I should..." Silas gestures vaguely toward the hallway. "I have a call with the base at seven. I'll let you two finish your morning."
He disappears down the hallway before either of us can respond, leaving me sitting on the counter with Wyatt still standing between my legs and my thoughts spinning in about fifteen different directions at once.
I slide off the counter, my legs feeling unsteady, my heart racing with a mixture of excitement and confusion and something that feels dangerously close to hope. Wyatt watches me with knowing eyes, not trying to stop me as I put some distance between us, needing space to think.