Page 48 of When Love Found Us
But when I push open the bedroom door, I pause.
She’s up, already showered and tidying the room.
My bed is made, the few things I’d left out neatly stacked on the dresser. She moves slowly, her hair damp, but there’s something about it that pulls at something deep in my gut.
And then I realize what she’s wearing.
A clean shirt, mine, along with a pair of shorts—also mine.
The fabric hangs off her frame, drowning her in soft folds, but fuck if I don’t like it.
She turns when she hears me, brushing loose strands of hair from her face. “You’re awake.”
I lift the plate. “And I made breakfast.”
Her gaze flicks to the food, then back to me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did,” I say, stepping inside. “Because if I didn’t, you’d survive off whatever scraps you could find. And as much as I enjoy watching you live out your struggling-college-student era, you’re pregnant, so . . .” I set the plate down on the nightstand, crossing my arms. “Eat.”
She rolls her eyes but sits on the edge of the bed anyway. “You’re really bossy.”
“And you’re really bad at taking care of yourself.”
She stares at me for a second before sighing, grabbing a piece of toast. I watch as she takes a bite, chewing slowly. Like she’s not trusting . . . the toast? Me?
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods, swallowing carefully. “Yeah. Just waiting to see if my stomach rejects this.”
“Think it’ll stay down?”
She takes another bite, slower this time. “Guess we’ll find out.”
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as she eats.
And maybe I shouldn’t be watching.
Noticing the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, how my shirt slips off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her collarbone. How her lips part just slightly before each bite, the way her fingers toy with the edge of the toast like she’s half-distracted.
She’s not trying to do anything. Not trying to get my attention.
But fuck if she doesn’t have it anyway.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling through my nose, forcing myself to look away before my thoughts go somewhere they shouldn’t.
And I tell myself this is nothing.
That it doesn’t mean anything.
But I know that’s a fucking lie.
Fuck.
ChapterTwenty
Atlas
My weekend was. . . different, to say the least.
