Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
Dexter
I wake before her.
The room is tinted in muted gold, the early light sneaking through the blinds and spilling across her skin like it belongs there. Like she belongs here. Draped over me, tangled and breathing softly, wearing my T-shirt like a promise half kept—half shrugged off in the middle of the night.
Her hair is a dark fan across my chest, her arm slung over my stomach like she owns this place. Like she owns me.
Maybe she does.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe too loud. The air feels fragile, like even the smallest shift could undo this—whatever this is. It’s not just sleep or sex or morning warmth. It’s something I don’t have words for. Something that tightens my throat and makes the room feel fuller than it should.
She sighs.
Just a little thing. Barely audible. But it hits somewhere deep, catching me off guard in the quiet. Like she’s reaching right inside me without even trying. Her cheek presses closer to my chest like she’s seeking something—comfort, maybe. Familiarity. A heartbeat that’s no longer hers alone.
My heart stumbles in response. Not out of fear. Out of awe. That slow-blooming sort that creeps in before you even admit you’re already falling.
Her fingers twitch near my ribs. Like she’s chasing a dream with her hands. Or maybe holding onto it.
Then, a whisper. A single word.
“Stay.”
Fuck.
I think I stop breathing altogether.
It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. But it’s enough.
So I stay.
Of course I stay.
I brush a strand of hair away from her face, careful like she might disappear.
Her skin is warm beneath my touch. A faint crease between her brows, like even sleep can’t fully pull her away from whatever she’s fighting.
The deadlines. The expectations. The silence she fills with noise and work and more giving than anyone ever deserves to carry.
She’s always trying so damn hard to hold everything together. Even when it’s not hers to fix.
If there’s one thing I can do today—if she lets me—it’s to make things less complicated for her. Not in grand gestures. Not in words. But in staying. In being here.
My lips find her forehead. Not to wake her. Not even to comfort her. Just to confirm she’s real.
She stirs at the touch. Eyelids flutter. Her lashes lift like she’s fighting the morning, not quite ready to give in to it.
Then she sees me.
And I swear something happens inside me that I’ll never be able to explain without ruining it.
“Hey,” I whisper.
She blinks once. Twice. Then that small, sleepy smile curls at the corners of her mouth. “You’re awake.”
“I didn’t want to miss this.”
“This?”
“You. Like this.”
Her smile stretches just enough to wound me sweetly. “Dangerous talk, Mr. Vaughn. You’ll make a girl think you’re serious.”
“I might be.”
“Don’t joke.”
“I’m not.”
Her expression shifts. Barely. But it’s enough to make the silence that follows feel important. She lifts her head, rests her chin on my chest. Her hair spills down the side of her face, catching light like it’s trying to distract me.
“You’ve got a racing heartbeat,” she says, like it surprises her.
“Still functioning. Mostly.”
“Could be nerves.”
“It is.”
Her brow lifts, curious. “Why?”
“Because you might decide this was just one night.” My voice cracks on that last word. I force myself to hold her gaze. “Because I haven’t had the chance to convince you it doesn’t have to be.”
She exhales, but it’s not annoyed. It’s something softer. Something in between acceptance and resistance.
“You think you can convince me?”
“I know I can try.”
“You’re impossible,” she says, but there’s no venom in it.
“Persistent,” I offer instead.
She laughs. Quiet, low. It winds around my ribs and lodges there.
“Same thing.”
We stay like that, suspended in something I don’t want to define yet. Her fingers trace slow circles over my chest. My hand rests against the curve of her spine, memorizing her. Not in a possessive way. Just . . . in case I never get to again.
There’s a familiarity here that doesn’t make sense. Like we’ve done this before in a different life. Or like the universe has been pulling us back together every time we slipped away.
Eventually, she sits up. The sunlight moves with her, turning her hair into a halo I’ll never be holy enough to deserve. She yawns, reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand. My shirt slips off her shoulder, revealing skin I kissed—devoured—last night.
She catches me staring.
“You keep looking at me like that,” she murmurs, voice still coated in sleep, “and I’m never leaving this bed.”
“That’s sort of the plan.”
“Dexter . . .”
Her tone is warning. But her smile gives her away.
“Five more minutes,” I bargain.
“You’re impossible before coffee.”
“Correction—until coffee.”
“Good thing I know how to make it.” She grins.
Her body folds into mine like we’ve been built for this. Like she’s the pause between heartbeats—barely there, but impossible to live without.
“Coffee can wait.”
“Oh?” Her brow arches, feigning innocence. “What takes priority?”
“Making it official.”
She blinks. “What?”
“The date.”
Her face shifts, something almost shy flashing in her eyes. “You still want that?”
“I want a lot of things,” I admit, my voice low. “But the date’s a good place to start. It’s the first one.”
She leans in. Her hair brushes my jaw. Her lips find mine—soft, lingering, certain.
It’s a kiss that promises.
“Then it’s a date,” she breathes against my mouth.
“Tonight?”
“Yes. Tonight.”
Her lips brush mine again, softer this time. A touch that ruins a man for everything that isn’t her.
“Tonight,” she murmurs.
And I know there’s no going back. Not from her. Not from this. Whatever happened when this started, it doesn’t end here.