Chapter 13 Amelia
amelia
. . .
Istir, rolling onto my side with the sheets tangled around my legs. My tank top clings to my skin, warm from sleep, while the room remains dim except for the faint glow of city lights slipping through the blinds.
Rex shifts at the foot of the bed, ears twitching, but he doesn’t move. That’s when I hear it—soft shuffling, the sound of footsteps carrying through the apartment.
I push the blanket off, shivering at the sharp bite of cold air against my skin as I get to my feet. My chest feels tight, but it’s from the silence breaking in a place that should be still.
Padding down the hall, I catch the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint echo of pacing. When I step into the kitchen, I stop short.
Maverick is there.
He’s barefoot, wearing only sweatpants, pacing back and forth on the tile as if he can’t stop. His hands keep raking through his hair, tugging until the strands stand up at odd angles.
I hover in the doorway, the city lights spilling over his shoulders, watching him unravel in the middle of my kitchen.
But as soon as he hears me, his expression shifts. His back stiffens, his eyes soften, and that hint of something haunted vanishes beneath a practiced ease.
“You good?” he asks, voice quiet but steady.
I nod too fast. “Yeah, just needed some water.”
He watches me for a beat, then continues tapping on the glass next to him.
I make my way into the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it at the sink, and sip slowly.
When I turn around, he’s still looking at me. His tortured blue eyes find mine, and there’s something about how his goofy demeanor is gone; he looks broken.
“What’re you doing up?” I ask, leaning against the counter, keeping my voice even.
He shrugs as his eyes drop to his glass. “Couldn’t sleep.”
I study him for a second.
His fingers grip the rim tighter, and his jaw clenches as if he’s swallowing something he doesn’t want to say. He looks tired, maybe a little sad, even a bit lost.
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
For a second, it seems like he might tell me. His lips part, his shoulders sag. But then he swallows it down, the way people do when they’ve been taught no one really wants to hear the answer.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, forcing a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Maverick starts to walk past me, but he pauses at the edge of the counter, his fingers tapping lightly against the countertop.
He doesn’t look at me when he says it.
“Would it be weird if I... laid down with you?”
His question catches me off guard. His words come out softly and uncertainly, making him seem vulnerable. But there’s something in his voice that makes my chest feel a little tight.
I shouldn’t say yes. I should protect the space I’ve established for myself.
But instead, I nod.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Maverick follows as we both head into my bedroom.
I slip under the covers first, pulling the sheet up to my chest. Maverick follows and lies behind me. We face away from each other, backs to backs, creating a safe, awkward line that divides us down the middle of the mattress.
The bed dips under his weight, and I can feel the faint shift in the mattress as he adjusts, like he’s trying not to breathe too loud.
Rex jumps back onto the bed and settles himself between us like a living, hissing barrier.
Maverick mutters, “Jesus,” as Rex bares his little gremlin teeth and lets out a long, guttural hiss.
I press my face into the pillow to hide the laugh that slips out.
“He’ll love me one day,” Maverick says quietly.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I murmur, a small smile tugging at my mouth.
Rex circles once, making sure to smack Maverick in the back with his tail before settling down between us.
Silence falls again, but it’s softer now.
I stare at the shadows dancing along the wall, cast by the faint city glow slipping through the blinds. The apartment is quiet again, save for the steady rhythm of Maverick’s breathing beside me.
He didn’t say what was wrong; he just asked if he could lie with me, and I let him.
Now, with the warmth of his body radiating near mine, the silence feels less jarring. Almost comforting.
The first thing that rouses me from sleep isn’t sunlight.
It’s a voice.
A painfully high-pitched, off-key voice.
My eyes blink open to the soft morning rays filtering in through the curtains. I push the blanket off and sit up slowly, trying to shake off the fog of sleep still clinging to my mind.
Maverick’s attempt at singing under his breath comes into auditory reach.
“With a taste of your lips, I’m on a ride…”
You’re joking.
I silently walk barefoot into the kitchen, still wearing the oversized, dark gray shirt I pulled on last night, my hair probably a tangled mess, and my face creased from the pillow.
The second I step into the doorway, I freeze.
Maverick’s cooking, in my kitchen, like he’s been living here his whole life.
Black sweatpants ride low on his hips, shirtless, with his back to me.
The natural light streams through the window, highlighting the curve of his shoulders and the rippling muscles along his back as he flips a strip of bacon. His blonde hair is messy, with strands sticking up in different directions, and his tattoos shift with each movement.
“You’re toxic, I’m slippin’ under—” He spins dramatically, nearly knocking the spatula into the sink, then points directly at Rex, who blinks, unimpressed.
I don’t say a word as I stand there, silently staring like a creep, taking in the clean countertops, the freshly wiped sink, the absence of clutter.
He cooked and cleaned, again.
I didn’t ask him to do anything like that; he took it upon himself.
And to top it off, he’s standing there looking so delicious in a pair of damn sweatpants.
I shift my attention back to Maverick, who is now attempting to sing to Rex.
Maverick crouches slightly, wagging his brows. “C’mon, little dude, sing it with me!”
Rex hisses, and Maverick gasps. “Rude.”
Undeterred, he leans in closer, attempting to croon the chorus directly at him. “With a taste of a poison paradise—”
Rex hisses and lashes out, catching the back of Maverick’s hand with a swift swipe.
“AHHHHH!”
The scream that erupts from Maverick is so high-pitched, so terrified, so cartoonish that I lose it. I double over at the doorframe, laughter bursting out of me in hysterical waves.
He spins around, eyes wide with shock, clutching his hand. “HE TRIED TO KILL ME!”
I can barely breathe, tears burning my eyes as I slide down the wall. “Oh my God, Maverick, you screamed like a little girl!”
“I did not!” he protests, his voice cracking. “That was a manly cry of pain!”
Rex glares, tail flicking, clearly satisfied with himself.
I step closer, catching the red line on the top of his hand. “Let me see it.”
“It’s fine, just a scratch.” He tries to play it off, but flinches when I gently take his wrist.
There’s a smear of blood just under his thumb, already starting to dry. Without thinking, I turn toward the cabinet, grab the little tin where I keep bandages and alcohol wipes, and motion for him to sit at the barstool.
He blinks at me. “Are you... taking care of me right now? Is this happening?”
“Shut up and hold still,” I mutter, cleaning the cut with practiced hands.
He watches me the entire time, a lazy smirk curling at his lips.
“You’re kinda hot when you’re gentle,” he says as he stupidly flexes his pecs.
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“Nope,” he says, grinning wider. “But I’ll be good if you kiss it better.”
I press a fresh bandage to his skin harder than necessary.
“Ow!”
I roll my eyes, but something traitorous and warm bubbles up in my chest.
I look around the kitchen again; everything is wiped down, dishes are drying in the rack, and the counters are actually visible.
It’s... embarrassing, in a way. The mess he walked into, but he didn’t say a word about it.
He just cleaned, cooked, and chose to stay.
“Thanks,” I mumble under my breath.
“For bleeding for you?” he teases.
“For breakfast,” I snap, trying not to smile as I toss the trash and shove the bandage tin back into the cabinet.
He stands, still holding his hand.
“You’re gonna owe me for that. It’s my throwing hand.”
“Oh, poor you,” I say dryly, brushing past him toward the food. “Guess I’ll make it up to you by not letting Rex finish the job.”
I step back, pretending I didn’t just have both hands around him, as if my pulse isn’t racing in my throat.
“Try not to piss off my cat again,” I mutter.
Maverick’s blue eyes don’t leave mine.
He flexes his fingers once, like he’s testing the wrap, but it’s his gaze that pins me in place.
“Is that concern, Hamilton?” His voice dips, low and smug. “Or do you just like having your hands on me?”
I scoff, but it comes out thinner than I want. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He steps closer, and suddenly his bare chest is inches from mine, the scent of clean skin, and whatever cedar-spice cologne he uses swallows the space between us.
“I don’t need to,” he whispers, “You’re already looking.”
I hate that I am.
His abs shift as he moves, every muscle taut and annoyingly defined, the kind of body that looks like it was built to be worshipped. His sweatpants sit dangerously low, the sharp cut of his V-line peeking out as he reaches up to open the cabinet behind me.
I don’t move.
He leans in closer this time, his chest brushing mine just enough to feel it, and his voice drops right beside my ear.
“You always this tense in the morning?” he breathes, “or is it just me?”
My breath hitches.
It’s involuntary, humiliating, and he definitely heard it.
I clench my jaw. “You’re in my space.”
He grins. “You haven’t told me to move.”
“Yet.”
Another beat of silence.
He lowers his mouth closer, like he might say something else, but doesn’t.
Instead, he rests his hand on the counter behind me, effectively boxing me in. His eyes trail slowly down to my lips. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t want me,” he says, “or are you waiting for me to do something about it?”
I blink as my heart skips a beat so hard it hurts.
“I’m waiting,” I say evenly, “for you to stop acting like every woman melts at your feet.”
His smile turns wicked. “They do, but I don’t want them.”
My chest tightens.
He’s too fucking close for my own good, and it’s stupidly annoying how good he is at this.
I lift my chin. “You think you’re irresistible?”
He smirks as his thumb drags across my bottom lip. “No, I think you hate that you want me this bad.”
And fuck me, he’s not wrong.