Chapter Seventy-Six
Ruby
I wake up to the sound of something sizzling and remain still. Just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to place it. Then it clicks. Kitchen. Him. My chest tightens before I can stop it. Last night’s conversation settles around me, filling me with warmth.
No labels, but we’re together. He wants to hear about my plans. Like he doesn’t plan on leaving. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m willing to give it a chance. I have to. It hurts too much to push him away, and it feels too right when we’re together.
I push the blanket back and sit up, taking stock of the room. His phone and keys are on the table by the side of the bed he sleeps on, clothes tossed around the room where we dropped them in our haste to tumble onto the mattress. We were a mess of arms, legs, and kisses that curled my toes.
Heat creeps up my cheeks as I pull his discarded T-shirt over my head before stepping into the hallway. The smell hits me first: eggs, toast, something warm and familiar that shouldn’t feel the way it does. But the feeling hits anyway.
Xavier stands at the stove, one hand braced on the counter, the other moving a spatula across the pan like he’s done it a hundred times here. Like this is routine. Like this belongs to him.
He glances over his shoulder when he hears me. “You’re up.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out quieter than I expect.
He turns back to the stove. “Give me a minute.”
I hover at the edge of the kitchen. This used to feel… temporary. Him being here. Helping. Fixing things and showing up because something was wrong.
Now…. He moves around the space as he knows it. Like he expects to be here, like he’s not leaving the second the reason disappears.
He grabs a plate, slides eggs onto it, sets it on the counter without asking. “Eat before it gets cold.” His gaze travels over me, eyebrows arching. “Clearly, that shirt looks better on you than it ever did me.”
That heat climbs higher until it blooms across my cheeks. “Thank you.”
He kisses the top of my head, already moving past me toward the sink. His hand brushes my lower back as he passes. Like that also belongs there.
My breath catches before I force it back down. This is what he said. We’re exclusive. We’re together. We’re not looking for an exit plan. And he knows how to make eggs the way I like them. Not a hint of yolk.
He rinses the pan, dries his hands, then moves back toward me, reaching past my shoulder to grab something from the cabinet.
His arm brushes mine this time. “Coffee’s done.”
“I can get it.”
“I’ve got it.” He pours it anyway, sets the mug in front of me like it’s part of whatever this together thing is.
I wrap my hands around the mug, grounding myself in the heat. “You don’t have to do all this.”
He doesn’t look at me. “I know.”
His answer holds the same certainty as his other response. Before, it felt like I was an obligation. Helping because he felt like I was a damsel in distress. Now, it feels different. It feels like he wants to be here. Like he belongs here. With me.
He scoots out a chair, grabbing his socks and frowning. There’s only one sock. I bite my lips together to keep from laughing. “Missing something?”
“Yeah.” His mouth is pressed into a firm line. “It appears that I’m missing a sock.”
“He’s upgraded.” I point to Squirt’s dog bed where Xavier’s white sock dangles from his snout like a trophy.
“Damn thief.” He shakes his head as he retrieves the sock, making quick work of putting both his socks and boots on. “It’s a good thing he can’t carry around boots.”
I hum as I taste the eggs. They’re warm and surprisingly good—a man of many talents. Heat swirls through me. Don’t think about what else he’s good at.
He grabs his jacket off the chair. “I’ll feed the pigs.”
“I can do it.”
“I’ve got it.” Again. Not a question. He heads for the back door, pulling it open, cold air rushing in before it shuts behind him.
I set the fork down, staring at the plate in front of me.
Xavier doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t stay.
But he’s staying. He’s doing the things that a boyfriend does.
I push my chair back and step toward the window, pulling the curtain aside enough to see outside.
He’s already at the pen, Samson watching him like he’s deciding whether to allow it.
Xavier leans over the fence, checking the latch, then grabs the feed bucket without hesitation. Samson grunts, stepping forward. The piglets follow like they expect him to be the one feeding them. Because now it feels like this is what he does.
I let the curtain fall back into place, stepping away from the window. The coffee’s still warm in my hands. The plate is still half full. Everything is exactly where it should be.