Chapter 14 #2
One night, after a particularly slow, sleepy kiss that turned into something much dirtier, he found the small velvet bag I had accidentally left in the corner of his hallway closet: the one Mia had pushed on me that shopping day, half a lifetime ago.
He plucked it up with a slow grin, opening it to reveal the garter belt and black stockings.
“Planning to kill me, Alicia King?” he said, voice low and dangerous.
I blushed so hard I thought my hair might catch fire. I’d completely forgotten about it and hoped it might disappear with a touch of a magic wand.
“One day,” I muttered, embarrassed senseless.
He prowled closer, circling me where I stood barefoot in the living room, in nothing but his worn David Bowie T-shirt and those damningly innocent panties.
“You’d murder me in this,” he murmured, trailing one finger over the lace, over my hip, over the places he already knew too well.
“I’ll keep it for emergencies,” I teased, breath hitching.
He leaned in, whispering against my right ear, because he knew. “Every minute with you is an emergency.”
But he didn’t push and didn’t demand, just tucked the bag back carefully, like a promise still waiting to be made.
One night, after too much wine and music humming through the speakers, he asked from the kitchen: “If you had to pick one place to stay forever, what would it be?”
I laughed, tossing a pillow at him. “Is this some philosophical test?”
He caught it easily, grinning, but his eyes were serious. “Humor me.”
I thought about it, swirling the last sip of red wine in my glass.
“Somewhere near the ocean,” I said finally. “Near the airfields and the sky, of course. Somewhere I can breathe.”
He nodded slowly, as if tucking the answer away somewhere private. Just absorbing all the information.
“If I were different…” he whispered, stopped mid-sentence, and then he leaned down and kissed me so deeply, so slowly, our tongues colliding in the sweetest bliss.
Later that night, wrapped around each other under the creased covers, I thought about what I was on the verge of saying to him, but the words couldn’t leave my throat just yet.
That maybe, just so quietly, my forever place could start to look suspiciously like a tiny, messy studio apartment on Bruce Avenue, and his compass rose tattoo finally showed home.
The next morning was one of those blue-sky days that made you feel like everything is possible.
I woke up in Paul’s bed, the sheet tangled around my waist, the faint sensation of last night’s red wine, gypsy jazz, late-night conversations, and slow sex still hanging in the warm summer air.
For once, he was still there when I opened my eyes.
He was sprawled on his stomach, half off the bed, arm dangling over the side, hair a wreck, breathing deep and even. There was something painfully sweet about the sight of him like that: unguarded, unrushed, like the world outside his small apartment didn’t exist yet.
I let myself look. The faint ink of the compass tattoo on his collarbone, the deep line of his spine, the mess of his long lashes on sun-browned skin.
Mine, my brain whispered before I could stop it.
I slipped quietly out of bed, pulled on the nearest T-shirt I could find (his, of course), and padded barefoot into the kitchen. Coffee. We needed coffee.
I was just filling the kettle when I heard it: the sound of his phone ringing sharply, with vibrations against the nightstand. Once. Twice. Three times. He groaned. Then, his voice, still thick with sleep, floated through the apartment.
“Hey.” A pause. “No, it’s fine. I’m alone.”
My stomach twisted: did he just say “alone” or had I misheard? Had my left, weaker ear deceived me, and he’d said “at home”? “All done”? I wasn’t sure. Just the way he said it struck me: sharp, on edge, like he didn’t want to be overheard, even though he knew I was right here.
I stood there, kettle in hand, listening without meaning to.
“Yeah… Portland, I told you. Of course. Look, I can’t talk now, all right?”
Silence. Another low murmur I couldn’t catch.
“I wasn’t before, but I will now, I promise.”
He sounded tired and frustrated, a tone I hadn’t heard from him before, not directed at me, anyway.
I blinked, grounding myself against the counter. Portland.
I remembered Mia telling me about his hometown, and how he’d mentioned it before, once or twice, telling me about family stuff: the bond with his brother and his mother’s health deteriorating.
Still, something about the tightness in his voice stayed with me.
When he finally padded into the kitchen, barefoot and still deliciously rumpled, he gave me a sleepy grin that almost melted every question right out of my head.
“Morning, my gorgeous Alicia,” he said, ruffling a hand through his hair.
“Morning,” I echoed, pouring two cups and handing him one with a questioning look.
He leaned against the counter, taking a long sip, watching me over the rim of the mug, clearly feeling obliged to comment on what just happened.
“Portland crap,” he smiled. “Just the usual about my mom wanting to see me when she takes too many meds.”
He set his mug down, closing the space between us in two slow steps. His hands found my waist, tugging me gently closer, fingertips playing idly with the hem of the oversized T-shirt I was swimming in.
“I’m so sorry you had to hear that,” he murmured against my hair. “Not exactly breakfast-in-bed material.”
I shook my head. “It’s okay. I get it. I think I’m jealous your mom is here to boss you around.”
Family messes, unfinished business: we all had them. Some heavier and more bruised than others, and Paul reminded me how I missed my Mom—who’d missed most of the pivotal moments in my life, including me falling in love.
He kissed my forehead, soft and lingering, and for a moment, it was easy to believe that nothing would change.
That the day would roll forward, lazy and sweet, and we’d survive it the way we survived everything else lately: together.
But later, when I caught him leaning over his phone again: screen tilted just out of my line of sight, thumb moving faster than casual texting would suggest, the knot deep inside me pulled tighter.
I ignored it and chose this golden stretch of days. Chose him. And he chose me, just like Mia described. Because sometimes, love isn’t about the warnings: it’s about the choice to believe, even when your gut wakes up and whispers you shouldn’t.