Chapter 9 #2
“Ava, baby,” I whisper against her lips, “you are incredible.”
I brush a strand of damp hair from her cheek, watching her eyes flutter open, glassy and dazed.
“Watching you let go like that… It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you for trusting me. For letting me be the one to give that to you.”
She’s still breathless, her body loose and languid beneath me, boneless in the sweetest way—wrecked and radiant all at once.
And all I can think is: I’ve never wanted anything more than this. Than her.
We don’t go all the way—not yet. But it doesn’t matter. Because the way she falls asleep in my arms afterward, wrapped up in my chest like she finally knows she’s safe.
That 's everything.
And I know in my bones—she’s mine. Not in a possessive way. But in the way that home can only ever be one person. Ava. Always.
***
The morning light creeps in slowly, golden and gentle through the curtains, like it knows better than to rush this morning.
She’s still wrapped around me.
Ava’s head rests against my chest, one arm slung across my stomach, her legs tangled with mine beneath the blankets. Her breathing is steady, peaceful. Like she finally slept without the weight of the world pressing on her.
God, I could stay like this forever.
I don’t move. Not even an inch. I just hold her there, soaking in the warmth of her body against mine, the way she fits so perfectly.
Her hair’s a mess, but beautiful. Her cheeks slightly flushed from sleep.
And even though last night didn’t end in sex, it still feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever known.
She stirs after a while, making a small sleepy sound before her eyes flutter open. She blinks up at me, a little dazed, and it’s honestly the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
“Hi,” she says, voice raspy and soft.
“Morning baby,” I smile down at her, brushing her hair back. “Sleep okay?”
She nods against my chest. “Better than I have in… I don’t even know.”
I kiss the top of her head. “Good.”
For a few moments, we stay like that—quiet and warm, with the morning pressing in soft around us. Then she shifts slightly, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me.
“You’re really here,” she murmurs, more to herself than me.
“I told you,” I say gently, reaching up to trace her jaw with my thumb. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She chews her bottom lip, eyes flicking over my face like she’s memorizing me all over again.
“I’m still scared,” she whispers.
“I know,” I reply. “And that’s okay.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s been holding that fear in her chest for years. Then she leans in and kisses me—slow, sweet and sure.
When she pulls back, I grin. “Was that your way of asking for coffee?”
She groans, dropping her head to my shoulder. “You’re such a menace in the mornings.”
“Only for you.”
She laughs, and it’s the best damn sound in the world. Light, free.
“I’ll make the coffee,” I offer.
“You cooking too?”
I raise a brow. “You want pancakes or an apology omelet for all the chaos I bring into your life?”
She smirks. “Surprise me.”
She gets up to shower, and I head to the kitchen, heart full, hands already reaching for the coffee grounds and a pan.
This isn’t just the morning after. This is the beginning. And I’m all in.
By the time she walks into the kitchen, wrapped in that slouchy cardigan she stole from my place months ago, I’ve already got the pancakes sizzling and her coffee poured—black, with exactly one and a half spoonfuls of sugar, just the way she likes it.
She pauses in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. “Pancakes are the winner huh?”
I glance over my shoulder and smirk. “You say that, like you didn’t eat four the last time I made them. Yesterday to be more precise.”
She narrows her eyes but doesn’t deny it. “They were decent.”
“Decent?” I gasp. “Ma’am, these pancakes have emotional depth.”
She laughs, walking over and stealing a bite straight off the spatula.
“Emotional depth, huh?”
“They’re soft in the middle and a little crispy on the edges,” I say, mock-serious. “Like me.”
She snorts. “You’re a menace.”
“And you love it,” I say, grabbing a plate and piling them high.
I grab her coffee and hand it over. She takes a sip, eyes fluttering shut for a second like it’s a religious experience. “You remembered the sugar.”
“I always do.”
She sits at the table while I grab my own cup and join her, and for a few minutes, we eat in that easy silence that’s only possible when things feel… right.
After a while, she sets her fork down and looks at me, that nervous glimmer creeping into her eyes. “I don’t know why I still feel like this is temporary.”
I reach across the table for her hand, lacing our fingers together. “Ava, this is not temporary. I didn’t learn how to make pancakes just to win you over once.”
She laughs, but it’s a little watery around the edges.
“I waited so long,” I continue, my voice softer. “All that time pretending I wasn’t scanning every room, hoping you’d be there. And now that you are? You think I’m backing down? Not a chance.”
She looks down, voice breaking. “I’m terrified.”
“Good,” I say, gently but firmly. “Fear means it matters. But don’t use it as a reason to run. Stay with me. Let me in.”
She blinks fast and then gives me this tiny, vulnerable smile. “You really want all of it?”
I squeeze her hand. “I want sleepy Ava, anxious Ava, bookstore-goblin Ava, and snarky-in-the-morning Ava. All of it.”
She pulls me up from my seat, wraps her arms around my waist, and murmurs into my chest, “You’re dangerously good at this.”
“I’m just good at you,” I whisper back, holding her close. “Always have been.”
She 's quiet again.
We’ve finished breakfast, coffee cups nearly empty, plates pushed aside. She’s curled her fingers around the warm mug like it’s anchoring her, eyes on the surface but not really seeing it.
I can tell something’s brewing beneath that calm exterior of hers. I’ve learned her silences. There’s the I’m-thinking-about-a-book silence, the I-hate-people silence, the I’m-tired-but-I-don’t-want-to-say-it silence.
And then there’s this one. The I’m-nervous-about-us silence.
So I wait a beat, then slide my chair closer until my knee brushes hers. “Penny for your thoughts?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tighten just slightly around the cup. When she finally speaks, it’s so quiet I almost miss it.
“I feel selfish.”
That word sits heavy between us. I tilt my head. “Selfish?” I echo.
She nods but doesn’t look at me. “Last night… you gave me so much. You made me feel incredible. And I—” She breaks off with a frustrated little sigh. “I didn’t give anything back.”
Ah. Now it makes sense.
I reach over, gently take her cup from her hands and set it aside, then take both her hands in mine. “Ava.”
She finally looks up, and the guilt in her eyes punches me straight in the chest.
“I didn’t do anything last night expecting something in return,” I say, firm but soft. “You needed to feel safe. Loved. Seen. That’s all I wanted.”
She blinks rapidly. “But it wasn’t fair.”
“Says who?” I brush my thumb across her knuckles. “There’s no scoreboard here. No keeping tally of who touched who more or who said the right things.”
Her eyes start to glisten, and I know she’s fighting it, so I lean in, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“You’ve spent so much of your life giving yourself to people who didn’t deserve you,” I murmur into her skin. “Let me love you without conditions. Let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.”
A single tear slips free, and she shakes her head, whispering, “I don’t deserve you.”
I pull back just enough to look her in the eye. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare. You deserve everything, Ava. Especially a man who sees your worth even when you forget it.”
She doesn’t speak again—just launches herself into my arms, burying her face in my neck. I hold her close, grounding her with the steadiness she’s still learning to trust. And in the quiet that follows, I don’t feel lacking.
I feel full. Because this? Holding her while she unravels, staying with her while she pieces herself back together—that’s the most intimate thing we could share. And I’m not going anywhere.
***
She’s asleep on the couch now, curled under the throw blanket with a paperback still clutched in one hand. She didn’t even get through five pages before her head tipped onto my shoulder and her breathing slowed.
I should move. Should shift her gently so she doesn’t get a crick in her neck.
But I don’t. Because moments like this are rare, still new, still precious. So I stay still, letting my hand rest lightly over hers where the book is slipping, and watch the way her lashes rest on her cheeks.
She’s beautiful like this. Soft in ways she rarely lets herself be. It’s like watching the sea go still after a storm.
My fingers drift to her temple, brushing a few loose strands of hair back behind her ear.
She stirs but doesn’t wake—just shifts closer, like even in sleep, she’s starting to trust me.
That thought wrecks me in the best possible way.
So I sit there, still and quiet, guarding her peace like it’s the most sacred thing I’ve ever been given.