Page 125 of Sinfully Yours

A beat of silence. Then, begrudgingly, "That's actually tragic."

"Exactly."

Ava groans and flops dramatically onto her stomach. "Fine. But I'm not moving unless there's coffee."

I chuckle, already heading to the kitchen. "You drive a hard bargain, Bennett."

By the time she drags herself out of bed, yawning and grumbling about how I have way too much energy for a man who just had this much sex, the coffee is ready, and the pasta is heating up on the stove.

Ava shuffles in wearing my shirt, looking perfect as ever, like sunshine after a month of rain. I ignore the way my heart skips and slide a steaming mug across the counter.

She takes it like a lifeline, inhaling deeply. "Okay. I forgive you for making me get up."

I chuckle. "High praise."

Ava hops onto the counter, watching as I move around the kitchen. "So, pasta for breakfast. Bold choice."

I arch a brow, setting two plates on the island. "Pasta is a perfect breakfast."

She grins, popping a forkful into her mouth. The second she tastes it, her eyes flutter shut, a small, sinful sound escaping her lips.

I grip my coffee mug tighter.

She hums, eyes still closed. "Okay, fine. Maybe I do love you for your cooking."

I exhale a laugh, leaning against the counter. "I'll take it."

We eat in comfortable silence, the scent of fresh coffee mixing with garlic and tomato, the early morning light streaming through the windows. It should be mundane. Ordinary.

It's not.

Because this—us, here, together—isn't a temporary arrangement anymore. Which means it's really, really special.

The second we finish eating, reality crashes back down.

Vanessa. The warehouse. The fact that we have less than twenty-four hours to prepare for whatever the hell she's planning.

I rinse the plates, my mind already shifting into strategy mode. "I need to go through everything we have on her again. Make sure we're not missing anything."

Ava, now fully awake and back in battle mode, nods. "Good. I'll help."

I glance at her. "Ava?—"

"No," she interrupts immediately. "Whatever you're about to say? No."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling. "I wasn't going to say?—"

"You were going to say that I should stay out of it," she counters, crossing her arms. "That it's too dangerous. That I should ‘let you handle it.'"

I sigh. "It is dangerous."

She lets out a sound that could be a hiss or a snort, eyes flashing. "Liam, you don't get to sideline me. This is my family's safety on the line, too."

I clench my jaw, but she steps closer, her voice lowering. "You can't keep trying to protect me by shutting me out."

I stare at her, at the fierce determination written all over her face, and I know she's not the same woman she was when this all started. She's not running. She's not breaking.

She's fighting.

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