Page 146 of This Life of Mine

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.