Page 69 of Own

My breath caught as he brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering a moment too long.

The room seemed to shrink, the candle flickering shadows dancing over his face.

“Grace,” he murmured, eyes dark and serious now, “I’m not just playing games.”

I swallowed hard, heart hammering as the space between us closed.

And then—just as I thought the moment would shatter—he smiled softly.

“Relax. I’m not rushing anything.”

My lips twitched into a grin. “Not sure if I should be happy about that or not.” Because he’d barely touched me and yet I was so wildly aware of him.

He laughed quietly, that rare genuine sound, before finally lowering his hand to rest over mine.

The next hour drifted by in a pleasant haze. We talked about everything and nothing. Voodoo liked old-school blues and modern synth. The playlist on his phone swung from Muddy Waters to Glass Animals.

I would have called it chaotic, but he had music for mission prep to winding down to another really moody acoustic one that was just downright relaxing. Apparently, he preferred vinyl to MP3s, but the playlists were easier for travel. I could respect that.

“So, you’re a nature nerdanda coffee snob,” I said, testing how that sounded after his last story.

“These are not mutually exclusive, in fact, I’d argue that because I know edible plants, how to track, and have even been known to beat GPS before—that I have every skill I need to recognizegoodcoffee.”

Grinning at the very idea, I raised my wine glass. “That’s—you know, I’m surprised you don’t just roast your own coffee beans.”

“Who says I don’t?” The dare was right there in his voice. No way was I going to take that bet.

“Pictures,” I said, toasting him with the wine glass before I took another drink, “or it didn’t happen.”

The spaghetti was absurdly good, the red sauce rich and just the right side of spicy, and the garlic bread? Downright sinful.I was so full I’d resorted to nibbling like a raccoon hoarding scraps. But still—I didn’t want the night to end. Not yet.

I leaned back, glass in hand, watching him from across the candlelit table. “If you weren’t doing this—you know, the chaos, the missions, the world-saving—what would you be doing instead?”

He didn’t even pause.

“Small café. Vinyl playing. No Wi-Fi. Just good coffee, better music, and real conversations.”

The answer hit me sideways—simple, specific, honest. Like he’d carried it with him for years.

I blinked, then smiled, slow and wide. “That’s... unexpectedly wholesome.” It also sounded dangerously perfect.

He tilted his head, that rare grin tugging at his mouth.

“Scary, huh?”

“Absolutely terrifying.” I set my wine down. “You might have to let me hang around. Supervise the pastries. Guard the espresso machine.”

“I’d even let you sit in my lap,” he said, with a gallant little bow of his head that would’ve seemed ridiculous—if it weren’t for the heat behind his eyes.

I laughed, heart thudding a little too hard. “What a generous proprietor.”

“Only for my favorite customer.”

And just like that, the air between us shifted—lighter, sweeter, but laced with something deeper. After downing the last of the wine in my glass, I rose and circled the table. He tracked me as I closed the distance and pulled the napkin from his lap as I took a seat.

“You are out of wine,” he murmured as I hooked my arm around his neck.

“I am,” I admitted, but set the glass on the table. “But I didn’t come over here to get more wine.”

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