26. Kane
Sunday morning. Vera’s curled against my side, one leg thrown over mine, her hand resting over my heart. Her breathing deep and even. Peaceful.
Beautiful.
I’ve been lying here for an hour. Watching her. The way her lashes fan against her cheeks. The way she instinctively presses closer even in sleep.
I love you.
Not yet.
Her eyes flutter open. Find mine immediately.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi yourself.” I brush hair from her face.
“You’re watching me sleep. That’s creepy.”
“Can’t help it. The way your lashes look against your cheeks.”
She makes a soft sound, burrowing closer. Then goes still. “Today’s the day.”
Not a question. A statement.
“Today’s the day,” I confirm.
“I’m terrified.”
“Me too.”
She lifts her head, searching my face. “But we’re doing this.”
“We’re doing this.”
“Good.” I pull her closer. “The plan still works. You go to brunch. I show up at two. We tell her.”
“What if she—”
“Don’t.” I cup her face. “We’ll handle whatever happens. Together.”
She nods. Takes a breath. “Okay. Together.”
“We have a few hours,” I say. “Just us.”
Something shifts in her expression. She lets her hand drift to my chest, fingertips light, and looks up at me with that curl at the corner of her mouth.
I catch her wrist. Then the other. Roll her back into the mattress and pin both hands above her head.
Her grin widens.
Later that morning, she perches on the counter while I make coffee. Precise movements. Measuring grounds. Pouring water.
I catch her staring. “What?”
“Nothing. Just watching you.”
“And?”
“I like watching you. The way you do things. Carefully.”
I move between her legs. Hands on her hips. “Most people find it annoying.”
“Most people are wrong.”
I kiss her softly. “Stay there. I’ll make breakfast.”
“You’re going to cook for me?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“Can you though?”
I swat her thigh playfully. “Brat.”
She laughs. The sound fills my kitchen.
I pull out eggs, butter, and bread. Move through my space with familiar precision. Her eyes are on my hands.
I crack eggs one-handed.
“Show-off.”
“You like it.”
She grins. “Maybe.”
I whisk the eggs. Add cream. “How do you take them?”
“However you make them.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Surprise me.”
I pour them into the pan. “I’m going to mess them up and you’ll never let me live it down.”
“Probably. But I’ll still eat them.”
“Why?”
“Because you made them for me.”
I go still. Then continue cooking.
The eggs turn out perfect. Fluffy. Buttery. Exactly right.
We eat at my kitchen island. Knees touching. Comfortable silence.
“This is nice,” she says eventually.
“It is.”
“We should—” She starts, then stops.
“Don’t.” I set down my fork. “Not yet. Can we have this? Before...”
“Yeah.” She takes my hand. “Just us.”
We clean up together. I wash. She dries.
“You have a dishwasher,” she says.
“The pans aren’t dishwasher safe.”
She looks at the pan in her hand, then at the dishwasher, then back at me. “And the plates?”
“Too delicate.”
“Mm.” She dries the pan like she’s filing this away for future use. “So everything you own is either too good for the dishwasher or organized by quadrant.”
“Left side, bottom cabinet.”
She snorts. Puts the pan away.
“So organized.”
“You say that like it’s weird.”
“It’s you.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Good.” She steps closer. “It’s good.”
I pull her in, and kiss her slow and deep.
We migrate to the couch. She curls against my side, and I wrap my arm around her.
“I could do this every Sunday,” she murmurs.
“Yeah?”
“Cook breakfast. Drink coffee. Wake up in your bed.”
“Our couch,” I correct softly.
Her breath catches. “Our couch?”
“If you want it to be.” The word sits there. I watch her face. “I’m not asking for anything.”
She presses closer. “I’d like that.”
We stay like that, time passing lazy and slow, neither of us reaching for our phones or the remote or any of the small things we’d usually use to fill silence. The city moves outside my windows. In here, nothing is required of us yet.
Eventually her gaze drifts to the clock. I follow it without thinking.
Eleven forty-five.
Her phone buzzes against the cushion. She reaches for it, and I watch her face change as she reads — not dramatically — just a small shift, the same stillness she gets when a piece of news confirms something she already suspected.
“Sloane?”
She shows me.
Sloane: Still good for one PM? Lisa texted this morning, she met someone else! Can you believe it? I told her nobody’s more perfect than my big brother but her loss lol. Already have someone even BETTER in mind for him!
“We end this today,” I say. “No more lying.”
“No more secrets,” she says, while texting back.
Vera: See you at 1.
She sets the phone down. “I need to go home and change.”
“Stay.” My arms tighten automatically. “You look perfect.”
“I’m wearing your t-shirt and nothing else.”
“Exactly. Perfect.”
She laughs despite herself. “Kane, I can’t show up like this.”
“Why not?”
“Because your sister will have questions.”
I’m quiet for a moment. “Five more minutes.”
“We don’t have five minutes.”
“Kane—”
“One.” I pull her closer. “Give me one more minute.”
She softens. Burrows into my chest. “Okay. One minute.”
Sixty-five seconds later. “Now, I need to go.” She stands. “I need to shower, change—”
My hand catches hers. “Stay…”
“I have to go.”
“One more minute.” I pull her back onto my lap. “Just one.”
She laughs, squirming. “You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it every time.”
She manages to slip free. Takes a step back. I catch her wrist, reel her back in, and she shriek-laughs as my arm wraps around her waist, lifting her off her feet entirely.
“Not fair,” she gasps between laughs. “You’re faster.”
“Should’ve thought of that before you ran.”
I set her on the counter. Step between her legs. Blocking any escape.
“Caught you.”
She pretends to think. “What do you want?”
You. Forever. Everything.
“This,” I say instead, pulling her closer. And I kiss her, deep and claiming, both of us knowing what comes after.
She melts into me, hands in my hair, mouth on mine, and I get lost in it.
Lost enough that I don’t register the sound at first.
“Kane? Where are you?”
My head jerks up. Vera’s eyes go wide with horror.
We both freeze.
“James wasn’t at the desk — George sent me up.”
Footsteps. Coming closer.
No time. No time to think.
“I brought cardamom rolls but I have to hurry otherwise Vera will—”
Sloane rounds the corner into the kitchen with cardamom rolls in hand. Her eyes move across the scene. Vera on my counter. My t-shirt. Her legs around my waist. My hands on her bare thighs.
Sloane’s keys slip from her fingers and clatter on the hardwood.
The bag goes next, and the rolls scatter across the floor between us, and none of us move to stop them.
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“Sloane—” Vera scrambles off the counter. My hand finds her waist automatically, steadies her without thinking, and I watch my sister’s eyes track the movement. The hand. The way Vera leans into me. The way I let her.
The way it looks like what it is.
“What...” Sloane’s voice cracks down the middle. “What is this?”
Vera’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words arrive.
I step forward. “Sloane, we were going to tell you—”
“Tell me what?” She hasn’t moved. She’s still standing exactly where she stopped, rolls scattered around her feet, and something about that stillness is worse than if she’d screamed. “Tell me what, Kane?”