Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Solenn
I woke up slowly, feeling the kind of warmth that came after a night of giving in. My sheets smelled different—like him. A mix of crisp soap, something subtly expensive, and the lingering remnants of whatever existed between us last night. It was grounding and unsettling all at once.
For a moment, I didn’t move. I let my eyes adjust to the soft morning light filtering through my curtains, painting golden streaks across my bedroom.
The apartment was still, the usual distant sounds of the city softened by the early hour.
The only thing breaking the silence was the steady, rhythmic breathing beside me. Deep. Even. Unbothered. Maverick.
I turned my head slightly, careful not to wake him just yet.
He was asleep. Completely. No sharp words, no calculating stares, no power-strained conversations.
Just a man who, for once, looked at peace.
The tension he carried in his jaw was gone, the usual hard edges of his features softened in the quiet of the morning.
His dark lashes brushed against his cheek, his hair tousled from sleep, from my fingers tangling in it hours ago.
His arm was still draped over my waist, his fingers resting against my hip, his grip loose but firm—like some part of him refused to let go, even in sleep.
There was something about seeing him like this, stripped of all the layers he wore around everyone else.
Something about being the only one to witness this side of him.
And for a brief, reckless second, I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to wake up like this every morning.
But the thought was too dangerous. Too tempting. Too impossible.
Before I could shove it away, he stirred, shifting slightly before his fingers twitched against my skin. His brows pulled together, like even in sleep he was resisting waking up, resisting being dragged back into reality. And then, as if he could feel me staring, his eyes cracked open.
"Watching me, Wheeler?" His voice was rough, laced with sleep, deeper than usual.
I barely held back my smirk, caught between amusement and the realization that I had been caught.
"Maybe," I murmured. "You’re not usually this still. Thought I should document it."
His gaze was still heavy with sleep, half-lidded, lazy, but there was something else there, something that made my stomach tighten.
He didn’t say anything right away, just let his eyes roam over my face, my hair, and the faint red marks along my collarbone.
My breath hitched slightly because I knew exactly what those marks were. What they meant.
Maverick didn’t speak, but his fingers slowly dragged up my back, tracing over my spine like he had every right to touch me like this like we had done this a thousand times before.
"You should’ve woken me up sooner," he muttered, his voice still hoarse from sleep, sending something warm and sharp skittering down my spine.
I swallowed, forcing my lips into a smirk. "You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to ruin it."
His fingers stilled against my skin, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t call my bluff. He just exhaled slowly, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling like he was trying to figure out what came next.
And honestly? So was I.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in my kitchen, wearing his shirt.
It was too big on me, the sleeves falling past my wrists, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the faint scent of him still clinging to the fabric.
I wasn’t sure why I had grabbed it instead of my clothes, but the second I slipped it over my head, I knew I had made a mistake.
Because the moment Maverick saw me in it, he went completely still.
I pretended not to notice. I busied myself with the coffee maker, my fingers steadier than my pulse.
"You’re stealing my clothes now?" His voice was too controlled, too unreadable.
I smirked without turning around. "I wouldn’t call it stealing. Just borrowing."
He made a low sound, somewhere between amusement and something else, something dangerous.
I felt him move before I saw him, his presence at my back sudden, consuming.
I wasn’t used to seeing him like this—barefoot, shirtless, the waistband of his slacks slung low on his hips.
He looked too comfortable in my space, too much like he belonged here.
"You’re making it weak," he observed, watching as I poured coffee into two mugs.
I rolled my eyes. "Some of us don’t drink it black just to prove a point, Mr. Spencer."
His lips twitched, just slightly, and for some ridiculous reason, it made my chest ache. Because this was easy. This playful back-and-forth, this lack of tension, this absence of lines drawn between us.
I handed him his mug, careful not to let my fingers brush his. "Drink it. It won’t kill you to have a little sweetness in your life."
Maverick took the cup but didn’t move, didn’t step back. His gaze was still on me, still too intense, too focused. He took a sip, and his jaw flexed slightly like he was trying not to react.
I smirked. "Good?"
His eyes met mine, something unreadable flickering behind them. "Dangerously."
And that was the moment I knew this was getting out of control.
We sat at the small table by my window, silent except for the occasional scrape of forks against plates. It should have been awkward, should have felt too intimate, too normal, too much. But it didn’t.
Maverick reached for his coffee, his fingers brushing against mine for just a second. A split-second touch. Barely anything. But I felt it everywhere.
I exhaled slowly, gripping my fork just a little tighter. "This is nice," I admitted before I could think better of it.
Maverick paused, his cup hovering just beneath his lips. He watched me, expression unreadable, before he finally said, "It is."
And that was what scared me the most.
Not the fact that we had crossed the line last night. Not the fact that I had woken up in his arms, or that I was sitting here in his shirt, drinking coffee like we had done this a hundred times before.
What scared me was how easy it all felt.
How much I wanted it to last.
How much I already knew it wouldn’t.