Page 178 of Gamebreaker

"Yeah?"

She set the mug down on the counter beside her. Then she reached over, took mine out of my hands, and set it down too.

"I woke up, and you were gone," she said.

My chest went tight. "I was right here."

"I know. I know that now." She looked at me, and I saw it then, under the morning haze in her face. The leftover panic. "For about four seconds, I didn't know where I was. I reached over, and your side was cold, and I thought I'd dreamt you. I thought I was back in my house."

"Cam."

"Every morning for three weeks," she said quietly, "I've reached for the other side of the bed before I was awake enough to remember. Every single morning. And every single morning, it was empty."

I didn't have a joke for that. I didn't want one.

I stepped into her and wrapped my arms around her waist and pressed my face into the wrinkled henley, right over her heart.

"I'm right here," I said into it. "I was making you coffee. I'm going to make you coffee every morning for so long you'll get sick of it."

Her arms came around me, both of them, and held on so hard my feet nearly left the floor.

"Never," she said into my bonnet. "I'll never get sick of it."

We stood there in my kitchen in the gold light, just holding on, until her heartbeat slowed under my cheek.

Then she leaned back and looked down at me, and her hand came up and cupped my jaw, and her thumb traced along my cheekbone, and I looked up at her and thought with pure clarity: I'm gone for her. Completely. With no conditions left.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning."

"I love you," she said.

My breath caught.

"I said it last night," she said. "In the dark. On the phone, and in your bed. But that was all still the dark." The light from the window was on her face, gold and plain and unforgiving, and she didn't turn away from it. "This is the first time I've ever said it in daylight, Harper. To anyone. I love you. It's morning, and the sun is up, and I'm standing in your kitchen, and I love you."

I just need you to be it in daylight too.

I'd texted her that three weeks ago, alone in my bed, with deep conditioner in my hair and my heart in pieces.

She'd remembered that too.

"Cam," I whispered. My eyes were already wet. "You can't keep doing this to me before I've had my coffee."

"Then drink it faster," she said, and kissed me.

It was slow at first. Unhurried. Like she had somewhere to be, but was choosing not to go yet. I kissed her back and let myself feel the whole, undefended weight of it.

Then her hand slid from my jaw toward my hair.

And stopped.

She pulled back an inch. Her fingers were resting at the edge of my bonnet, and she was looking at me with a question in her eyes, very clear, very careful.

"Can I?" she asked.

I knew what she was asking. Not just can I take it off. Can I touch it? Can I hold it? Can I be the kind of rough you like with the part of you that you protect the most?