He was at the truck when I came through the glass. “Follow me?” “I know where you live, Hayes.” “Humor me.” I followed him north. Work bag on the passenger seat. Laptop. Badge. No overnight kit. I am not a person who packs to sleep at someone else’s house on a Monday because a text said yours. His window was lit when I pulled in behind the truck. He had the door open before I knocked. Soft shirt. Bare feet. The grin. “Mercer.” “Hayes.” He took the bag like it was a tool and stepped back. His house was quiet. No light sequence. No ceiling joining the conversation. Savory smell from the kitchen. A couch that had been used. Books that had been read. Over the console, a shelf sagging one millimeter left. I pointed. “Landon,” he said. “I knew it.” “It’s holding photos. Passing grade.” “It’s holding a grudge.” The kitchen was chopped vegetables and a skillet that knew its job. No liaison. I approved. “Spaghetti,” he said. “Mostly from scratch.” “Define mostly.” “Jar I’m not ashamed of. Meatballs are mine.” “Acceptable.” I stole a piece of pepper and leaned on the counter. His elbow found mine at the salt and stayed there. Phone. Landon. Speaker, because his hands were wet. “You’re cooking. I hear guilt.” “I eat.” “Is she there?” Luke looked at me. I raised an eyebrow. “She’s here. She’s judging your shelf.” “The shelf is fine.” “The shelf is a habitat,” I said. A delighted pause. “Furniture committee.” “No,” Luke said, and hung up on a short brother noise. We ate at the small table. Bay 3 got one sentence. Everything held. Then commercials, a hike he might take, my phone staying in the bag. His foot found mine and stayed. Couch after. A blanket over my knees because the evening had turned cool. His arm along the back until I leaned, then it was around me, thumb at my sleeve. I could have gone home. I had a car. I had a ceiling that would ask questions. I didn’t. When I kissed him, it wasn't hesitant. His mouth found mine with the easy certainty of a path already taken. His hands came to my ribs, steady, pulling me close until my knee pressed between his thighs on the worn leather. Three steps down the hall, then the wall, his mouth under my ear. “Shirt,” I said, which was not a complete sentence. He laughed into my throat. “Yours or mine?” “Yours. I didn’t pack.” “Good.” The bedroom was cool, the window cracked to the quiet street. Glasses on the nightstand. His shirt off, then mine. His mouth on my skin in a house that would not log it. He asked, quiet, against my sternum. I said yes in actual words. I said more than yes when his hand slid down and found me already being obvious about it. “Claire.” “Don’t make a meeting of it.” “Wouldn't dream.” Calluses. Patience. Then less patience when I pulled his hair and told him not to be careful for the sake of being careful. His mouth, then his hands, specific in the quiet. When I came first like that, shaking, a sound I didn’t have to take back because nothing in this house was taking minutes. He kissed my hip, then my mouth. I pushed him onto his back and looked. He let me. When I sank down onto him the stretch pulled a sound out of both of us. His hands at my hips, holding, not steering. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s—yeah.” I set the pace until I wanted his face that close. He sat up. The angle changed. Heat, skin, his mouth on my breast, my nails in his shoulder. He hooked my knee over his elbow and moved deep enough that I had to hold the headboard. “Tell me.” “Don’t stop.” He didn’t. The second one dragged him with me, a broken sound into my neck, his body tight and then loose. We stayed stacked, breathing slowing together, his hand resting quiet against my hair, my palm against his chest. After a minute he laughed once. “What.” “You didn’t pack.” “I noticed.” “Stay anyway.” “I already decided that in the kitchen.” He kissed the corner of my mouth. “Noted.” Morning could wait. The shelf could keep sagging. I had not packed to sleep. I stayed anyway.

Chapter 22: Mostly From Scratch