Page 54 of Shifting Sands

She shrugs, eyes still half lidded. “You wore me out, Brew.”

A mischievous grin spreads across her face, and I shake my head, chuckling.

“You’re trouble—you know that?”

“Right,” she says, sipping again. “I’m trouble.”

She watches me over the rim of the mug. There’s something in her gaze I haven’t seen before—curiosity. Like she’s trying to figure something out too.

“You always this domestic in the morning?” she asks, nodding to the coffeepot.

“I know my way around a kitchen,” I say, and she raises a brow.

“Is that so? Well then, there’re supplies in the refrigerator. Knock yourself out.”

She watches from a stool at the island as I find a skillet in the drawer beneath the stove, then gather what I need from the fridge and pantry before I busy myself cracking a couple of eggs into a bowl.

“Can I help?” she asks, already coming around to my side of the counter.

“Sit,” I say as I toss some bread in the toaster and slide the eggs around in the pan. “I’ve got this.”

She laughs as she plops back down.

We eat at the island, still in that quiet bubble of morning haze. Her bare foot brushes mine under the stool, and she doesn’t move it away.

She tells me stories about coming to Sandcastle Cove to visit her aunt and uncle as a kid, and I tell her about dirt track racing and playing football in high school.

She laughs with her whole face—head back, eyes bright.

And somewhere between her finishing my toast and me reaching over to wipe a smear of egg yolk from the corner of her mouth, something shifts inside me.

I realize I don’t want her to leave.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Because this morning feels good with her in it.

She catches me staring, leans back a little, and raises an eyebrow. “What?”

I shake my head, setting my fork down. “Nothing. Just … glad you’re here.”

The words slip out before I can weigh what they might mean. But I don’t take them back.

Her expression softens. “Me too.”

She scoots closer on the stool, lays her head on my shoulder, and slips her fingers into mine on the island. Her thumb traces the back of my hand.

“I don’t know what it means yet,” I admit. “But I know I like waking up with you. I know I like you stealing my coffee and wearing my shirt.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she leans in, pressing her forehead against mine.

“It doesn’t need to be defined,” she whispers.

We sit like that for a long time. The coffee cools. The eggs get cold. But it doesn’t matter. Because something real is starting to grow.

And for once, I’m not looking for the exit.

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