19. Delilah
DELILAH
I wake up warm.
Not just warm. Surrounded by warmth. Kane's chest against my back, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath stirring my hair.
For a few seconds I let myself exist in the space before thinking. Before remembering what I did last night, or cataloging all the ways this could go wrong.
I'm in his bed. I slept here. I chose this.
His fingers flex against my stomach and I realize he's awake.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning."
Neither of us moves. I don't know if I'm supposed to. If there's a protocol for waking up next to someone you're not entirely sure you should have slept with in the first place.
Kane solves it by pressing his mouth to my shoulder. "How'd you sleep?"
"Fine."
"Liar."
I twist enough to look at him over my shoulder. "What makes you think I'm lying?"
"Because you woke up three times."
"How do you know that?"
"I was awake for two of them." He kisses my shoulder again. "And you talk in your sleep."
My face heats. "I do not."
"You do. Nothing coherent. Just little worried sounds." His hand spreads wider across my stomach, holding me closer. "What were you dreaming about?"
"I don't remember."
He doesn't push. Just stays there, solid and warm against my back, like he has nowhere else to be.
I should get up. I should offer a joke, a deflection, anything that puts distance between last night and this morning. But I don't want to move yet.
So I don't.
"You stole most of my bed," Kane says after a minute.
"I did not."
"You did. I woke up clinging to about six inches of mattress while you sprawled out like a starfish."
"That's a lie."
"It's not." His mouth curves against my skin. "I have photographic evidence."
I twist around fully to face him. "You did not take pictures of me sleeping."
"I didn't. But I thought about it."
"You're unbelievable."
"You made me beg you to stay," he points out. "Now you won't even let me have half the bed."
"I didn't make you beg."
"You did. I had to ask twice."
"That's not begging."
"Close enough." He tugs me closer. "Guess I need practice sharing."
The word sharing hangs in the air. Like he's already decided we're doing this again. Like last night wasn't a one-time lapse in judgment but the start of something ongoing.
I want to believe him. I want to believe he means more than just another night.
But Kane seems so certain. So calm. Like we've simply resumed where we stopped and nothing needs to be renegotiated.
I pull back. "You can get plenty of practice."
His eyes search mine. "Yeah?"
"Last night was sex, Kane. Not a reconciliation."
His hand stills on my waist.
"Is that all you wanted?" he asks.
It's a heavy question.
I could say yes. I could keep this simple. Physical. Something that doesn't require me to trust him with anything beyond my body.
"Yes," I hear myself say.
He withdraws his hand and sits up, the mattress dipping under him. The warmth disappears with him.
I immediately miss it.
Kane swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, his back to me. "Okay."
That's it. Just okay. Like I've given him an answer he expected and now he's moving on.
I sit up, pulling the sheet around myself. "Kane—"
"Bathroom's through there if you need it." He gestures vaguely toward the ensuite without turning around. "I'll give you some space."
He's halfway across the room before I find my voice.
"Wait."
He stops. Doesn't turn. Just stands there with his shoulders tight and his hands loose at his sides.
"I wanted you to contradict me," I admit.
He turns then, slowly.
"You wanted me to tell you that you're wrong?" he asks. "That last night meant more than you just said?"
"Yes."
"So you lied."
"I didn't lie. I just—" I stop. "I wanted to see what you'd say."
"And if I'd agreed with you?" His voice is level. "If I'd said yeah, it was just sex, what would you have done?"
I don't have an answer for that. Because I don't know. Maybe I would have been relieved. Maybe I would have been devastated.
He crosses back toward the bed and sits on the edge, close but not touching. "I wanted to wake up with you. Not spend the morning trying to figure out which of your answers I was supposed to disbelieve."
The words hit like a slap.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"For what?"
"For testing you. For saying something I didn't mean just to see what you'd do." I pull my knees up to my chest. "That wasn't fair."
He doesn't argue with me. Just sits there, studying my face.
"Why'd you do it?" he asks.
"Because I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of wanting things I can't have. Of wanting you and having you decide six months from now that it was a mistake." I wrap my arms around my knees. "What if I admit I want more than sex and find out that's all you ever wanted from me?"
His hand finds mine on my knee. "That's not all I want."
"How do I know that?"
"Because I'm telling you."
I glance at our joined hands. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"Want someone." My voice comes out small. "I'm used to people wanting things from me. Not wanting me."
Kane shifts closer, his thigh pressing against mine. "Come here."
I let him pull me against his chest. His arms come around me and I close my eyes, breathing him in.
"I want you," he says. "Not just your body. Not just another night. I want mornings like this. I want breakfast together. I want you in my bed and at my table and sitting across from me while we argue about dumb shit that doesn't matter."
My throat tightens. "For how long?"
"As long as you'll give me."
Hope starts blooming in my chest, but fear overtakes it.
"What if I can't forgive you?"
"Then I'll keep trying." His hand strokes down my back. "Or I'll accept that I fucked up too badly to fix and I'll still want you anyway."
I pull back enough to look at him. "That's insane."
"Maybe." He brushes hair away from my face. "But it's true."
I want to argue. To find the flaw in his logic. To protect myself from believing him and being wrong.
But I'm tired of protecting myself from the one person I actually want.
"I want breakfast together," I say instead.
"Yeah?"
"And another night." I swallow hard. "Even though I'm scared of wanting everything after that."
His face softens. "We don't have to figure out everything today."
"But we have to figure out something."
"Okay." He kisses my forehead. "What do you need to know?"
"That you're not just staying because you feel guilty. Or because you think you owe me."
"I don't feel guilty." He tilts my chin up so I'm looking at him. "And I don't owe you. This isn't about debt, Lilah. I want to be here."
I lean my forehead against his. "What happens now?"
"I don't know."
"That's not reassuring."
"Would you rather I lie?"
"No."
"Then I'm telling you the truth. I don't know what happens now. But I want to find out." He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "With you. If you'll let me."
My heart pounds. I search his face for any sign he's performing. That he's saying what he thinks I want to hear.
I don't find it.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"I want to find out too."
His smile is small but real. "Good."
We sit there for a moment, still tangled together, neither of us in a hurry to move.
After a while I say, "I really do want breakfast."
He smirks and kisses me again, then untangles himself and stands. "Come on. There's a plate of scrambled eggs with your name on it."
"Wow. Are you a magician?"
His smirk gets a little dirtier. "You tell me."
I hit him with his pillow.
I watch him pull on a pair of sweatpants, his back muscles shifting under his skin. When he catches me staring he raises an eyebrow.
"See something you like?"
"Maybe."
"You're allowed to look, you know."
"I know."
"You're also allowed to touch."
My face heats. "I'm aware."
He crosses back to the bed and leans down, caging me in with his hands on either side of my hips. "Just making sure we're clear."
"We're clear."
"Good." He kisses me once more, quick and sure, then straightens. "Now get dressed before I change my mind about cooking."
I stand and look around for my clothes. They're scattered across the floor where we left them last night. I gather them quickly, hyper-aware of Kane watching me.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, gesturing. "Towels are in the cabinet if you want to shower first."
"Thanks."
I lock myself in the ensuite and lean against the door, my clothes clutched to my chest.
What am I doing?
Last night was supposed to be simple. Physical. A way to stop obsessing over him by finally giving in.
Instead I'm standing in his bathroom at seven-thirty on a Saturday morning planning to eat breakfast with him like we're a normal couple doing normal couple things.
I don't know how I got here.
That's a lie. I know exactly how I got here.
I knocked on his door.
I told him I wanted to stay.
I woke up in his arms and didn't leave.
I made choices.
And now I have to live with them.
I shower quickly, grateful for the hot water and the chance to think without Kane watching me. When I emerge ten minutes later, dressed in yesterday's clothes and feeling only slightly more collected, Kane's already gone downstairs.
I follow the sound of clattering pans to the kitchen.
He's standing at the stove in sweatpants and nothing else, spatula in hand, frowning at a pan of eggs like they've been calling him dirty names in tiny egg voices.
"How's it going?" I ask from the doorway.
He looks up. "They're not cooperating."
"What does that mean?"
"It means they're supposed to be fluffy and instead they're..." He pokes at them with the spatula. "Rubbery."
I cross to the stove and peer into the pan. "You're overcooking them."
"I'm following the instructions."
"What instructions?"
"The ones I looked up on my phone." He gestures to his phone propped against the backsplash, a recipe website open on the screen.
I can't help it. I laugh.
"It's not funny," he says, but he's smiling too.
"It's a little funny." I take the spatula from him. "Go sit down. I'll finish these."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I nudge him toward the table. "Go. Before you ruin them completely."
He goes, looking oddly pleased to have been kicked out of his own kitchen.
I rescue the eggs, plate them with toast from the toaster he managed not to destroy, and carry everything to the table. Kane's already set out coffee and orange juice.
We eat in comfortable silence. His foot finds mine under the table and stays there.
"These are good," he says after a few bites.
"They're salvageable."
"Because you saved them."
"At least you didn't burn the kitchen down." I sip my coffee. "Low bar, remember?"
"Glad I met the bar."
"Barely."
"I'll take it."
We finish eating and I help him clear the table. When the dishes are done, we stand in the kitchen looking at each other like neither of us knows what comes next.
"I should probably get changed," I say eventually.
"Guess so."
"And maybe check my phone. Priya's probably wondering where I am."
"Probably."
I don't move. Neither does he.
"Tonight," I say, throat tight. "Can I come back?"
Kane's gaze softens. "You don't have to ask."
"I want to ask."
"Then yes." He closes the distance between us and kisses me, slow and thorough. "You can always come back."
For now, I let myself believe it.