The rain tapped a gentle rhythm against the bedroom window, blurring the city lights outside into soft, glowing orbs. The room smelled like lavender detergent and something else—something distinctly Kenzie .
"Good." She leaned in, her forehead pressing against mine. Her breath was sweet and warm. "That’s exactly where I want you. In over your head. In my bed. In my life."
She pulled back just enough to unbutton the first two buttons of her sweater. A hint of lace. A slow, deliberate invitation.
I exhaled. "I just... I feel like I’m in over my head."
Kenzie set the mugs on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the massive king bed— our bed now, technically, though it still felt like hers. The one she’d shared with her ex-husband. The one she’d cried in. The one she’d re-made with white linen sheets the day she changed the locks.
"You’re overthinking again," she said softly, closing the bedroom door behind her with a quiet click .
"You’re not him," she said. "You’re not my ex. And you’re not my son, even if you call me 'Mommy' when we play." A small, dangerous smile tugged at her lips. "You’re the man who fixed the leaky faucet, who showed up with pizza, who stayed when I had a nightmare last week."
"Hey." She reached out, her cool fingers tracing my jaw. "Look at me."
The rain tapped a gentle rhythm against the bedroom window, blurring the city lights outside into soft, glowing orbs. The room smelled like lavender detergent and something else—something distinctly Kenzie .
"Good." She leaned in, her forehead pressing against mine. Her breath was sweet and warm. "That’s exactly where I want you. In over your head. In my bed. In my life."
She pulled back just enough to unbutton the first two buttons of her sweater. A hint of lace. A slow, deliberate invitation.
I exhaled. "I just... I feel like I’m in over my head."
Kenzie set the mugs on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the massive king bed— our bed now, technically, though it still felt like hers. The one she’d shared with her ex-husband. The one she’d cried in. The one she’d re-made with white linen sheets the day she changed the locks.
"You’re overthinking again," she said softly, closing the bedroom door behind her with a quiet click .
"You’re not him," she said. "You’re not my ex. And you’re not my son, even if you call me 'Mommy' when we play." A small, dangerous smile tugged at her lips. "You’re the man who fixed the leaky faucet, who showed up with pizza, who stayed when I had a nightmare last week."
"Hey." She reached out, her cool fingers tracing my jaw. "Look at me."
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