Page 147 of This Life of Mine

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.”