44. Chapter 44
Chapter forty-four
Alex
Lina’s asleep in my arms, breath slow and even, her body warm and relaxed against mine.
We’re both spent—used up in the best possible way—but I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to wrap my head around how easily she’s gotten me so wrapped up in her.
How effortless it feels to hold her like this, like it’s something I’ve been missing without ever realizing it.
I can’t get enough of her.
I can’t get enough of the way she moves or the way she sounds.
Though those sounds are burned into me now—it’s her. The quiet after. The way she melts into my chest. The way her fingers curl reflexively into my side even in sleep.
I’ve wanted things before. People, moments, relief.
This is different.
Do we have work to do? Of course. There’s history. Trauma. Messy truths still unfolding. We barely know each other in the ways that matter long term.
And somehow…none of that scares me.
I know I’ll still want her even if she has terrible taste in music. Even if she steals the blankets. Even if she snores a little—like she is now, soft and unselfconscious, something that could be annoying but isn’t. It’s… adorable.
I smile to myself at that.
We already have more in common than either of us expected. We’re both meticulous—borderline obsessive about cleanliness and order.
We both treat the gym like therapy, like maintenance for more than our bodies.
We both care about health, about discipline, about showing up even when it would be easier not to.
But more than that, we both know what it means to suffer. She more than I.
I shift slightly, careful not to wake her, and she instinctively presses closer—trust, even in sleep.
I’ve lived a life built on restraint—keeping people at arm’s length, on leaving before anything could root too deeply.
But lying here with her tucked into me, something eases inside me with quiet assurance.
I want this. Not only tonight while everything is intense and unfinished.
I want her in the mundane moments. The hard ones. The ones where we irritate each other and choose to stay, anyway.
She exhales, relaxed, safe.
I don’t find myself anticipating the worst. Instead, a quiet certainty settles over me: I’m where I’m supposed to be.
Holding the woman I already know I’m not willing to walk away from.
As I daydream about what our future might look like, her phone lights up on the nightstand next to me. It’s 11:30 p.m.
The soft ping of a message shouldn’t matter. But it does.
I crane my neck to see the screen, expecting nothing important—and then I see the name. EJ.
And the message beneath it makes something ugly and hot surge straight through my chest. Rage hits fast and piercing, teeth clenched.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Lina stirs slightly, still asleep, completely unaware. I ease her down gently, careful not to wake her, then reach for the phone. Briefly, I consider telling him what I think of him.
But that wouldn’t be a good idea.
So I do the nice thing. The considerate thing. I unlock the phone and type back, keeping it short and final. I hit send before I can second-guess it.
The response comes quicker than I expect.
At least he knows when to bow out. Must be high.
I set the phone face down on the nightstand. That chapter is officially fucking closed.
I pull Lina into my arms again. She sighs in her sleep and nestles against me, completely at ease, like nothing in the world could touch her here.
Good. Because nothing will. EJ certainly won’t. Not ever again. No one who thinks they can treat her like a passing thought ever will.
I press a quiet kiss to her hair, the anger fading into something steadier and far more calming.
Possession isn’t what I feel. Protection is.
I wake before she does.
It’s habit to be up early. My body is wired to move early, to assess, to do something.
The house is quiet, quiet that feels easy after everything we’ve burned through together last night.
I couldn’t keep my hands off her. I took her at least four times.
Where that energy came from, I have no fucking idea. She was spent.
I slip out of bed carefully, turn off Lina’s alarms, and head to the kitchen.
I’d already had groceries delivered early—Walmart, of all places. Efficient. No fuss.
Bacon hits the pan first, followed by eggs. Sliced avocado laid out with care. Simple food. Real food.
I find her espresso machine and figure it out quickly enough. When the lattes are done, the kitchen smells like coffee and breakfast and something seriously close to normal.
That’s when I hear her.
Soft footsteps. A faint shuffle.
I turn in time to see her standing in the doorway, half-awake and completely distracting.
A short black silk nightgown, its smooth fabric clinging to her hips, the hem barely brushing the underside of her curves.
Her hair is long and messy, sleep-soft, and wild, and I know—very clearly—that I’m responsible for that.
I can’t pull my eyes away.
She’s lean but solid, muscle and curves, balanced like she’s built for movement and strength. Strong legs. She looks like a fucking goddess.
I love this version of her.
She blinks a few times, then smiles when she sees me.
“What are you doing?” she asks, voice still thick with sleep. “I didn’t think I had enough groceries for breakfast.”
“I took care of it,” I say easily. “And I made lattes.”
Her eyes flick to the counter, then back to me. “You did?”
I nod, watching her lean against the doorframe like this is our normal. Like this is a thing we do.
She pads closer, wrapping her hands around one of the mugs, inhaling deeply. “You’re a dream,” she murmurs. “I might get used to this.”
“Eat love,” I tell her gently. “You need fuel.”
She nods in agreement and slides onto a stool, still watching me like she’s piecing together a new version of me—one that cooks breakfast in her kitchen and knows how she takes her coffee.
I plate the food and set it in front of her.
Before I even register the thought, I lean down and press a kiss to her mouth. A slow, gentle kiss—warm and lingering, a good morning meant only for her.
“Beautiful,” I murmur against her lips.
It should be enough. A simple kiss. A shared moment. Instead, it detonates the hard shell within my chest.
Because even that—her mouth soft against mine, the way she exhales when I pull back—makes me want her in every way imaginable. Makes last night feel like a promise for more instead of a conclusion.
We took our time with one another last night. Learned each other’s rhythms in the dark. And somehow, it still isn’t enough.
Though I want more of her body, I also want this. The closeness. The ease. The way she gazes at me from my kitchen chair as if I belong here, like I didn’t only show up for the night but for the morning after.
This—this—is the part I didn’t know I was missing.
It’s not the adrenaline or the danger. It’s the quiet intimacy. The way wanting her doesn’t fade with daylight—it intensifies. I’m where I want to be.
Something shifts before I can name it. Then I see it. That look.
I glance over from the stove and catch her watching me. I’m only in sweatpants, bare chest still warm from the kitchen heat, and the way her eyes linger makes a slow smile spread across my face.
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. “You going to tell me what you’re staring at?”
She doesn’t even try to hide it. Just lifts one brow and takes another sip of her latte like she’s perfectly entitled to the view.
“I’m appreciating the chef,” she says.
“Risky,” I reply, amused. “Especially this early in the morning.”
Her eyes flick back up to mine, unmistakably mischievous now. She’s biting her lower lip.
I grin. “You keep looking at me like that, and we’re not leaving this house today.”
She laughs. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
I step closer, to fully invade her space, my voice dropping. “It’s a warning.”
She tilts her head up, meeting my gaze with all the confidence and temptation of a woman who knows what she’s doing, and for a second I seriously consider abandoning breakfast entirely.
I straighten instead, pointing a finger at her like I’m scolding a child. “Finish eating, love. Gym after. If we go back to bed now, neither of us will be productive.”
She grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I smile back, unable to help myself. “Trust me—it’s not.”
But as I return to the stove, her eyes never leave me.
And I know—without a doubt—that staying in bed all day would be hazardously easy with her.
Especially if she keeps watching me like that.
She drums her fingers lightly against her mug as we eat, eyes on me in that way that says she’s not only making conversation—she’s circling something.
“Can I ask you something kind of awkward?” Lina says.
I glance up, amused. “Those are usually the best questions.”
She exhales, clearly debating how to phrase it. “I feel like this is strange because normally…you’d already know this. Dating apps don’t leave room for mystery.” She pauses, then looks at me again, hopeful but trying not to be obvious about it. “How old are you?”
I don’t miss the way her shoulders tense, like she’s bracing for an answer she won’t love.
“Thirty-seven,” I say easily.
The relief on her face is immediate. Unfiltered. And for some reason, that lands deeper than I expect.
“Oh,” she says, smiling now. “Okay. Good.”
“Good?” I repeat, arching a brow.
She laughs quietly. “Yeah. You’re just—“ She gestures vaguely at me. “Very fit. You can never really tell how old someone is. I was just curious where we stood with the age gap. Your background check said thirty-seven, but I wasn’t sure how accurate it really was.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“You ran a background check on me?”
“I absolutely did.” She grins. “What? Does that make me crazy for looking you up?”
She winks, like she’s daring me to call her out.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. Smart. Cautious. Exactly what she should’ve done.
“Good genetics,” I say with a shrug. “Consistent habits.”
“I’m thirty-six, as I'm sure you know,” she states. “So, that works.”
She's not wrong. I did already know that from her file.
“It does,” I agree. “Same general phase of life.”
“Same emotional mileage,” she adds.
“Just different roads.” I smile.
She nods, satisfied—and something about the way the tension leaves her tells me this mattered more than she let on.
I’m guessing a certain immature gym-bro had something to do with her concern.