Page 56 of Brash for It
I nod once, more vow than agreement.“We’re clear.I don’t share and I don’t expect you to either.”
She kisses my chest like a signature on a line.We lie there long enough for the AC to cycle again and a lawn mower to growl alive on the next block.The regular world is starting up its shift.We should join it.
“Breakfast?”I ask.“Or you want to stay horizontal and pretend we don’t need food.”
She pretends to think.“Food, but then we should come back to bed and see how this horizontal version compares to vertical.”She winks and I fall more in love with her fire.
I snort, roll out of bed, catch the sheet when she tries to steal it with her.“In a minute,” I say, and throw her my T-shirt from last night.She pulls it on and claims my boxers again and I find myself happy about it.
In the kitchen I make coffee while she sits on the counter because she likes the height and because her feet always find the rung my boot scuffed up.She watches me, quiet, not the way people watch when they’re waiting for a show, but the way people watch when the watching is the point.
“You’re staring,” I tell her over the pour.
“Damn right I am,” she admits without hesitation.
We eat eggs and toast standing up, like we don’t want to get too far from the doorway between bed and day.She brings her mug to her mouth, winces at the strength, drowns it in milk, tries again.“I have a late shift,” she says.“Trina’s got a morning bridal party from hell and then she’s taking off.She asked if I can close.Didn’t know you’d be back.Now I’m sad I took the extra shift.”
“I’ll probably have a debrief sermon at some point in the afternoon.”I tell her honestly.“So I’ll be at the compound for a bit any way.”
She nods, the rhythm we’ve built clicking into place.Ordinary sounds good this morning.Ordinary feels like aftercare.
“Today or tomorrow,” I add, “I’m putting up that back camera at the spa.I don’t think he’ll try anything, but I’m not leaving gaps.”
“Today if you can,” she remarks making me wonder if she struggled with fear while I was away.“It’ll shut up the small voices faster.”
“Done.”
We clean what we dirtied.I turn to wipe the counter and she comes in close and puts both hands flat at my hips.The move’s not heat; it’s gravity.I bend to kiss the top of her head because I can’t not.
“What?”I ask into her hair.
“Last night,” she hesitates, not looking up, but then continues.“The warning and then the choice.Thank you for giving me both.”
“That’s the only way I know how to do it.”I tip her chin up.Her eyes are clear.Good.“No take-backs,” I add, a half-smile.
She laughs.“None.”Then, more sober: “Kellum, if the club needs you—if you get called again—just, like I know the club is everything.It’s your whole family and they have all been so nice to me.Your mom and Jenni, Kylee, and Jami even have all checked in while you were gone.I know this stuff matters.I just,” she’s rambling uncomfortably.“Just if you could tell me goodbye.Don’t slip out without that please.The quiet hurts worse than the road.I know this is new, but I need you to know I need that.”
“Won’t slip again,” I commit.It’s an easy promise to keep now that I know what the silence costs.“I’ll wake you up so you can complain about the coffee before I ride out.”
She grins.“Deal.”
I grab my cut and she reaches without asking, fingers running over the stitching on the rocker, the worn patches.She doesn’t treat it like a costume or a threat.She treats it like part of the man.That matters.
“You ever think you’d want this?”she asks.“The house that smells like coffee, the wet towels you forgot to hang right,” She’s tiptoeing around her real question.I raise my eyebrow letting her know, I just need the actual question, direct.“Did you ever think you’ want the us?”
“No,” I tell her honestly.Then, “But yes, apparently I do.It’s all I thought about being away from you.It’s not any us I want.It’s you.”
She steps in and kisses me, slow and morning-sweet.It tastes like yes.
We split for showers—quick, boring, the kind where the steam is just steam.I put on jeans that know my shape and a fresh tee; she throws her hair up in a knot that looks like chaos and somehow never falls apart and looks intentional.Before we walk out, she pauses at the notebook on the table and writes in neat block letters:
Spa back camera (K)
DMV (tomorrow?)
Groceries: real bread, milk, coffee creamer
She adds a line at the bottom, smaller:— Tell Kellum again: I choose this.
