Page 51 of Remmen

“But I didn’t because a very thoughtful human stopped me.” He meant it, too. I could hear that much.

I tucked myself under his good arm and steered him toward the clinic. “You’re clearly suffering from blood loss. Come on, let’s go talk to Otho.”

CHAPTER 22

ANNE

Working a long shift in Otho’s clinic after the night I’d had would have exhausted anyone. I didn’t remember coming home or falling asleep. Even stranger, I felt clean, like someone had bathed me while I slept.

Or, possibly, I’d taken a sleepy shower before passing out.

I wasn’t in my bed.

The rest of yesterday flashed through me and I remembered that I didn’t have a bed anymore. Or, rather, I now shared one with Remmen. And we were done keeping secrets.

So where was my massive mate?

His wounds had been superficial, but he’d waited at Otho’s for hours, helping me with menial tasks as I helped anyone I could while Otho kept Mestyn alive, much to Remmen’s consternation.

The bedroom was warm and the light coming through the thin curtains was late morning gold. His pillow still had the dip of his head in it. I pressed my face into it and breathed him in, and then I got up because the house smelled like something else too, something that had no business being on this planet.

Coffee.

I pulled on one of his shirts. It hung to my knees and the sleeves covered my hands and I didn’t care. The front room stopped me in the doorway.

My medical kit was on the shelf by the door, next to his lamp. The quilt from my old apartment was folded over the back of his bench. My boots were lined up against the wall under a row of hooks, and my jacket was hanging on one of them. The stack of books I’d brought from Earth sat on the table where he used to eat standing up, and there was a second chair pulled up to it that hadn’t been there before.

It looked like it was ours.

He had claimed the couch in the front room, one arm stretched over its back, his legs crossed at the ankle. He’d been watching the doorway. The second he saw me in his shirt, his whole face went soft and stayed there.

“Morning,” I said.

“Afternoon,” he corrected.

“You went to my apartment?” I asked. Then I breathed deep. “You brought my coffee?”

Remmen smiled. “It’s in the kitchen. I boiled the water, but I wasn’t sure how to make it. Will you show me?”

I went past him and he caught my hand on the way by, just long enough to press his mouth to my knuckles. Then he let go and followed me into the kitchen.

The French press was on the counter next to a pot of water still warm from the stove. My bag of coffee was there too, opened and sniffed at, with the top unrolled, like he’d stuck his nose in and tried to figure out the ratio by smell alone.

“Two scoops,” I told him, spooning the grounds into the press. “Then the water, not quite boiling. Let it sit for four minutes. Push the plunger down slow.”

He stood close behind me and watched over my shoulder like I was performing surgery. His chest was close behind my shoulders, warming my back without touching it.

“Four minutes,” he repeated.

“Don’t rush it. Good coffee is patient coffee.”

“I’m patient.” His voice was low and warm against my hair and I got distracted enough to nearly overfill the press.

The four minutes took about a year. I found a mug and pushed the plunger down and poured, and the smell that came up was so good I almost cried. Again. I’d already cried over this coffee once and I wasn’t doing it twice.

His arms came around me from behind before I could clutch the cup fully. “Good,” he rumbled. “Now I can bring it to you in bed.”

I leaned back into him. “I’d like that.”