38. Morning Light
Chapter thirty-eight
Morning Light
Mandy
We stayed on the floor of my living room until the light moved off the wall.
Then we went out and had breakfast at two in the afternoon like a pair of criminals, and afterwards Sterling stood in the middle of my apartment looking at eleven unopened boxes and a mattress on a frame, and observed, with enormous diplomacy, that the place had a lot of potential.
So we came back here. Both of us and the cat, in one trip, because between us we own almost nothing that isn’t a book.
I still have the lease on Chandler Street and I am not giving it up.
There is a wall in there covered in masking tape and forty drawings, and it is the first room that has ever been only mine, and I am going to need somewhere to work out of until I find a storefront with a window I can put my name on. But I didn’t sleep there last night.
The gray dawn filters through the warehouse windows in soft, dusty shafts, illuminating the aged red brick and the heavy industrial beams of the loft.
I stay very still, my head resting on Sterling's chest, listening to the slow, steady thump of his heart.
It's a rhythmic, grounding sound, nothing like the frantic mechanical screech of the fire alarm that started this whole mess weeks ago, or the careful, echoing quiet of a rented one-bedroom four blocks from a building that burned.
Here, in the center of his bed, the world feels anchored.
For a long time, I just watch the way the light catches the slight premature gray at his temples, a silver thread born of years spent running into buildings everyone else was running out of.
He isn't awake yet, but the protective instinct doesn't sleep; his arm is draped over my waist, a heavy, warm weight, and his thumb traces absentminded circles against the skin of my hip even in his dreams. It feels illicit, this level of peace.
I keep waiting for the internal panic to kick in, for the voice in my head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Derek, to tell me that I'm behind on a deadline, or that my mother is about to burst through the door with a checklist of my failures.
But the silence of the loft is different now.
It isn't the hollow, industrial quiet of a temporary shelter or a stage set for a performance.
It feels like an exhaled breath, a long-held tension finally leaving the room.
The smell of the place has changed, too.
It's no longer just cedar and Sterling's soap; there's the faint, citrusy scent of my shampoo on the pillowcase and the lingering aroma of the tea we shared last night.
My things aren't tucked away in a suitcase anymore; they're beginning to bleed into the edges of the room.
Sterling stirs, a low vibration in his chest preceding the flutter of his eyelashes.
When those dark eyes find mine, there is no morning-after flinch, no sudden recalibration of personal space or awkward clearing of the throat.
He just pulls me closer, his strength effortless as he tucks me against his side, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
“Morning, Sparkles,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep and rough as sandpaper. “You're staring again. I can feel the design-brain at work. “
“I'm assessing,” I say, leaning into the warmth of him, my hand splaying across his ribs. “It's a professional habit. Graphic designers are very detail-oriented. I'm checking for symmetry, color balance, and overall structural integrity. “
He huffs a laugh against my skin, a warm vibration that travels all the way down to my toes. “Assessing. That's what we're calling it now? Last time you looked at me like that, you were trying to decide if my jawline met the golden ratio. “
“Would you prefer 'conducting a thorough visual inventory of my new permanent residence'? “ I counter, my voice soft. The word permanent feels like a daring leap, but the way his arm tightens around me tells me he's ready to catch me.
He lifts his head, propping himself on one elbow, his expression shifting from sleepy to something steady and unshakeable.
The humor remains in the corners of his eyes, but the core of his gaze is pure sincerity.
“I'd prefer you never stop doing it. My place is your place, Mandy.
No more pretending, no more guest-room rules. You're not a visitor anymore. “
The weight of it hits me then, the reality that I don't have to pack a bag today.
I don't have to pretend that the man holding me is just a very generous friend.
I didn't turn down New York, I bent it into a shape that fits here.
I chose this city, and this warehouse, and him.
I chose the man who makes me feel safe even when the world is literally on fire.
“I need coffee,” I whisper, though I make no move to leave the heat of the blankets. “Real coffee. Not that protein shake sludge you try to pass off as a beverage when you're rushing to shift. “
“Ouch. My barista skills are under fire already?
“ He rolls onto his back, pulling me on top of him so I'm looking down at his crooked grin.
“Fine. I'll make the good stuff. The French press.
But you have to feed the fluffy beast. He's been staring at the back of my head for ten minutes and I think he's planning a tactical strike on my jugular. “
I glance toward the foot of the bed. Bowie is indeed perched on the vintage trunk, his tail twitching with rhythmic precision.
His eyes are wide as moon pies, glowing with a smug, proprietary satisfaction.
He looks like a cat who knew exactly how the finale of a long-running series was going to end and is now just waiting for the credits to roll so he can get his treats.
“He knows he won,” I say, sliding off Sterling to find my slippers.
My left foot finds the familiar plush, and for the first time in weeks, I don't care that the right one is still missing, likely a charred relic in a landfill somewhere.
“He's officially the king of the loft. You're just the staff that provides the windowsill space. “
We pad into the kitchen together, the cold hardwood floor a familiar sting under my bare heel.
The choreography of the kitchen has changed.
For weeks, we performed a careful dance of avoiding contact, a series of polite 'excuse me's' and tactical retreats as we reached for the kettle or the fridge.
Now, Sterling leans against the counter, his arm finding its way around my waist as the coffee maker begins its rhythmic cycling.
He doesn't move when I reach for the mugs; he just pulls me back against him, his chin resting on my shoulder.
I lean my head back, watching the steam rise.
There is no performance left in the way his body fits against mine.
We move to the bathroom together, brushing our teeth side-by-side in the mirror.
It's a mundane, domestic moment, but watching our reflections, my smaller frame tucked under the shadow of his broad shoulders, our eyes meeting in the glass, feels more intimate than the grandest gesture.
“About the housing stuff,” I start, my voice muffled by foam.
I spit and rinse, leaning against the vanity.
“The lease on the old place is officially settled.
Derek's out of the picture, and the insurance check is cleared.
But I still have three boxes of charcoal sketches at Kayla's and enough design books to build a small fort.
This place is going to get real crowded, real fast. “
Sterling turns me around, his hands resting on the counter on either side of my hips, effectively trapping me in his space.
He's still shirtless, the ink on his arms dark against his skin.
“We'll figure it out together, Mandy. It's not a project you have to manage solo.
We'll move your desk by the big north-facing window.
The light there is better for your sketching anyway.
I've already cleared out those old weight racks. “
“You've been thinking about where my desk goes? “ I ask, my heart doing a slow, heavy roll in my chest.
“I've been thinking about a lot of things since the night of the fire,” he says softly, his gaze dropping to my lips before returning to my eyes.
“Mostly about how long I was willing to wait for you to realize that you belonged here.
I didn't save you from that building just to let you drift away into some sterile apartment by yourself. “
My phone chirps on the counter, the screen lighting up with a photo of my mother in one of her signature cardigans.
My stomach does a familiar little flip, the Peterson pressure, but it's dampened by the feel of Sterling's heat against me.
The anxiety is there, but it's manageable, a distant hum instead of a deafening roar.
I pick it up, sliding the bar to answer. “Hi, Mom.“
“Mandy, dear,” she says, her voice bright and pointedly curious.
“I just wanted to check in. Your father and I were talking about the Fireman's Ball and...
well, we were wondering if things were still...
settled? After your father and I talked with you, we wanted to make sure you weren't making any rash decisions about moving back into that apartment alone. “
Sterling leans in, his lips brushing my temple, his arm tightening around my middle. He's listening, his presence a silent, solid anchor. I take a breath, smelling the cedar and woodsmoke that always seems to cling to him, the scent of my home.
“It's real, Mom,” I say, and the words feel like a bell ringing in a quiet room, clear and resonant. “The relationship. It isn't for show anymore. Sterling and I... we're together. Truly. I'm moving into the loft permanently. “