The world came back in slow, syrupy increments. The first thing I was aware of was weight. A delicious, solid, warm weight pinning me to the mattress. The second was scent. The clean, masculine smell of Clyde's skin, now mingled with the faint, musky aroma of sex. The third was sound. The deep, steady rhythm of his breathing against my ear, a lullaby more potent than any drug.
I was lying half on top of him, my head pillowed on his chest, one leg thrown over his powerful thighs. His arm was a heavy, possessive band around my back, holding me securely against him even in sleep. I didn't move. I just lay there, breathing him in, memorizing the feel of his heart beating under my cheek. The events of the past few days—the terror, the grief, the confrontation, the mind-blowing sex—all felt like a distant, chaotic dream. This, the quiet aftermath, felt more real than anything.
His chest rumbled under my ear as he made a soft, sleepy sound. His hand, which had been resting on my back, began to move in a slow, absent-minded caress, stroking up and down my spine. I tilted my head back to look at him. His eyes were still closed, but a small, contented smile played on his lips.
"You awake?" I whispered, my voice husky with sleep and other things.
"Mmm," he grunted, the sound vibrating through me. His eyes slit open, those pale blue irises hazy with sleep and satisfaction. "Yeah." His hand slid down to cup my backside, giving it a gentle, proprietary squeeze. "You?"
"Trying to decide if I'm dreaming," I admitted.
That got his eyes fully open. He looked down at me, his gaze soft and so unbearably tender it made my chest ache. "Not a dream," he said, his voice a low, morning-rough rumble. He leaned down and brushed his lips against mine, a kiss so sweet and gentle it was at odds with the raw power of the man. "I don't dream about things this good."
My heart did a full, Olympic-grade somersault. Clyde Adams, the man of few words, had a way of delivering a line that could level me completely.
The pleasant ache in my body was starting to become more pronounced, a reminder of the thorough, devastatingly effective way he'd loved me. I shifted slightly, and a twinge made me wince.
He felt it immediately, his body tensing. "You sore?"
"A little," I admitted, a flush heating my cheeks. "You're… a lot of man, Clyde Adams."
A look of genuine concern crossed his face. "I was too rough. I'm sorry, I—"
I cut him off by placing a finger over his lips. "Don't you dare apologize. It was perfect." I smiled up at him. "But a hot bath sounds like heaven."
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by a heat that had nothing to do with concern. "A bath," he repeated, as if it were a brilliant tactical maneuver he hadn't considered.
Before I could process his change in expression, he had rolled us out of bed, scooping me up into his arms again as if I were as light as a feather.
"Hey! I can walk!" I protested, laughing, my arms automatically looping around his neck.
"I know," he said, striding toward the connected bathroom. "But I like carrying you."
The bathroom was as utilitarian as the bedroom—clean white tiles, a large, no-nonsense shower, and a deep, clawfoot tub that looked like it could comfortably fit two. Especially if one of them was determined to be as close as possible to the other.
He set me down on the closed toilet lid and turned on the taps, testing the water temperature with his hand until it steamed. He poured in a generous glug of some unscented liquid that foamed up into soft, white bubbles. Then he turned to me, his eyes darkening as they raked over my naked body, sitting on his toilet.
"Stand up," he said, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register that made my knees weak.
I did. He reached for me, his hands gentle as he guided me into the tub. The hot water was an instant relief, soaking into my sore muscles. I sank down with a blissful sigh, the bubbles coming up to my chest.
I expected him to leave, to give me privacy. Instead, he kicked off his boxer briefs—the only thing he'd pulled on after we'd collapsed into bed—and stepped into the tub behind me.
"Oh," I said, intelligently.
The tub was big, but with his size, it was a very, very tight fit. He settled behind me, his legs bracketing mine, and pulled me back against his chest. I was nestled between his thighs, my back to his front, surrounded by him, by the hot water, by the steam and the scent of him.
"This okay?" he murmured, his lips against my damp hair.
A breathy laugh escaped me. "It's a little more than okay."
His arms came around me, one hand splaying across my stomach, the other reaching for a washcloth. He dipped it in the water, soaped it up, and began to wash me. It was the most intimate, tender thing I had ever experienced. He washed my arms, my chest, my stomach with a slow, reverent attention to detail, as if I were something precious and fragile. His touch was devoid of the desperate hunger from before, replaced by a quiet, overwhelming possessiveness.
He nudged my thighs apart under the water, and his soapy hand slid lower, washing me there with a careful, thorough gentleness that had me biting back a moan. It wasn't sexual, not really. It was… caretaking. It was him claiming every part of me, seeing to my comfort, my well-being. I relaxed back against him, boneless and pliant, letting him take care of me.
When the water began to cool, he lifted me out as easily as he'd put me in, wrapping me in a large, fluffy towel and drying me with the same meticulous care. He dried himself quickly, then scooped me up again and carried me back to the bed.
He didn't put me under the covers. He laid me down on top of them and then stretched out beside me, just looking at me in the soft morning light filtering through the blinds. His hand came up, tracing the line of my jaw, my collarbone, my hip.
"You're so beautiful," he said, the words simple, stark, and utterly sincere.
I reached for him, pulling him down for a kiss. This one was slow and deep, a languid exploration that tasted of mint and promise. The embers of desire, banked by the bath, began to glow hot again.
This time, it was slower. A rediscovery. He worshiped my body with his hands and his mouth, learning every curve, every dip, every sensitive place that made me gasp and arch against him. And when he finally slid inside me again, it was with a slow, aching tenderness that brought tears to my eyes. It was lovemaking in its truest, purest form. A silent conversation of I see you, I want you, I'll keep you.
Afterward, we lay tangled together, slick with sweat and satiated once more. He pulled the covers over us, tucking me firmly against his side. I was drifting, floating on a sea of contentment, when I felt his lips press against my forehead.
"Sleep, Troy," he whispered. "I've got you."
And I did. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, safe in the circle of his arms.
I woke to the smell of coffee. Sunlight was streaming into the room. I was alone in the bed, but the space beside me was still warm. I stretched, wincing only slightly. A hot bath and… other activities… were excellent for sore muscles.
I heard a soft footstep and looked up. Clyde was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He was wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants, a mug of coffee in each hand. His hair was damp from a shower, and he was watching me with a look of such open, unguarded affection that it stole the air from my lungs.
"Morning," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. It transformed him from a deadly soldier to a devastatingly handsome man who had just spent the night making love to me. Repeatedly.
"Morning," I croaked, pushing myself up on my elbows.
He came over and handed me a mug. "Black. Just how you like it."
I took it, our fingers brushing. "You remembered."
"I remember everything about you," he said, his voice serious. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hip pressed against mine. "How's my… lot of man… feeling this morning?"
I took a sip of the excellent coffee, hiding my smile behind the mug. "Thoroughly appreciated," I said, meeting his gaze. "And maybe a little bit sore in the best way possible."
His smile widened. "Good." He leaned in and kissed me, a slow, coffee-flavored kiss that promised this was only the beginning. "Then my mission was a success."
The coffee was perfect. Rich, dark, and strong enough to jump-start a hibernating bear. I took another sip, watching Clyde over the rim of my mug. He was watching me back, a quiet, satisfied look on his face, as if I were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. The morning sun gilded the muscles of his chest and shoulders, and I had the sudden, overwhelming urge to set the coffee down and climb right back into his lap.
But my stomach chose that moment to emit a loud, plaintive growl that echoed in the quiet room.
Clyde's eyebrows shot up. "Sounds like someone's stomach is issuing a distress call."
"I haven't had a proper meal since that turkey sandwich," I admitted. "And… well, I've been a little busy since then." The memory of exactly how I'd been busy sent a fresh flush of heat through me.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "I'll see what I can do about that. Can't have my…" He paused, the smile softening into something more thoughtful. "Can't have you wasting away."
He stood up and held out a hand. I took it, letting him pull me to my feet. He didn't let go immediately, instead lacing his fingers through mine. The simple, domestic gesture felt more intimate than anything that had happened in the bed. It was a statement. You're with me.
He led me out of the bedroom and down the hall. "Tour?" he offered.
"Please."
The hallway was short, with two other doors. He nudged one open. "Second bathroom. Stocked. Extra towels are in the closet." It was as clean and functional as the one we'd just left.
The other door was closed. He opened it to reveal a small, neat office. A single, large monitor sat on a desk, a high-backed chair behind it. A filing cabinet stood in the corner. It was stark, but on the desk, next to a rugged-looking laptop, was a framed photograph. It was the same one from his bedroom, the group of men in front of the Humvee. My heart gave a little squeeze. This was his space. The inner sanctum.
"This is where the magic happens?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.
"The magic of after-action reports and equipment requisition forms," he said dryly. "Thrilling stuff."
He tugged me back into the hall and toward the main living area. The apartment was bigger than I'd initially thought, an open-plan layout that combined the living room, dining area, and kitchen.
The living room was… sparse. A large, comfortable-looking dark grey sofa that looked like it could comfortably seat a whole SEAL team. A single armchair. A large television mounted on the wall. A plain, functional rug. There were no knick-knacks, no throw pillows, no art on the walls except for a large, framed topographic map of some mountainous region I didn't recognize. It was the living space of a man who didn't really live here; he stationed himself here.
But then I saw the details. The books on the single shelf weren't thrillers or military histories; they were well-worn copies of books on astrophysics and ancient civilizations. And on the end table next to the sofa was a half-finished mug of tea and a dog-eared copy of a biography on Oppenheimer. This wasn't just a crash pad. This was his mind's home. The discovery felt like a precious gift.
The kitchen was a different story. It was clearly where he invested his energy. It was modern and fully equipped, with stainless steel appliances, a gas range that looked professional-grade, and a butcher block countertop that was scarred and well-used. A large knife block held an array of terrifyingly sharp-looking blades. It was a kitchen that meant business.
"You really do cook," I said, running a hand over the cool surface of the stove.
"Told you it was a necessary skill," he said, moving to the refrigerator. He pulled it open, revealing it was fully, almost obsessively, stocked. Everything was neatly organized, labels facing out. "Omelet okay? I have ham, cheese, peppers."
"An omelet from Clyde Adams? I'd be a fool to say no."
He got to work with that same efficient, focused grace he did everything. I hopped up on a stool at the kitchen island, content to just watch him. He moved around the space like it was his own personal command center, cracking eggs one-handed, dicing peppers with blinding speed, grating cheese. It was a performance.
"So," I said, sipping my coffee. "The top-secret cookie retrieval missions. Do you have a specialized unit for that? A dedicated team of pastry-based operatives?"
He didn't look up from the sizzling pan. "That's classified information. I could tell you, but then I'd have to… make you breakfast." He shot me a quick grin over his shoulder.
I laughed. "A fate worse than death."
He slid a perfect, golden-brown omelet onto a plate and set it in front of me, along with a fork. "Eat."
I took a bite. It was, unsurprisingly, the best omelet I had ever tasted. Fluffy, cheesy, perfectly seasoned. I moaned in appreciation. "Oh my god. You can pulverize a man and make a mean omelet. Is there anything you can't do?"
He leaned against the counter opposite me, arms crossed, watching me eat with a look of deep satisfaction. "Algebra. I'm shit at algebra. The letters… they shouldn't be there. It's confusing."
The image of this mountain of a man being baffled by a simple quadratic equation was so absurdly endearing I almost choked on my eggs. "Well, everyone has their weaknesses. I'm glad yours is math and not, you know, dodging bullets."
"Priorities," he agreed with a solemn nod.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sound the clink of my fork on the plate. I finished every last bite and sat back with a contented sigh. "I may never eat my own sad turkey sandwiches again."
"Good," he said, taking my empty plate and putting it in the dishwasher. "You shouldn't have to."
He came around the island and stood between my knees, his hands coming to rest on my thighs. He looked down at me, his expression turning serious. "This… us… it's not just because of the job, Troy. It's not just about keeping you safe."
My breath hitched. "It's not?"
"No." He shook his head, his thumb stroking my leg. "The job is the reason I walked into that grocery store. It's not the reason I'm standing here in my kitchen, not wanting you to ever leave."
The raw honesty in his words, so simply stated, was more powerful than any grand declaration. I slid off the stool, so we were standing chest to chest. I had to look up to meet his gaze.
"I don't want to leave," I said, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
A slow, brilliant smile spread across his face, the kind that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. It was a smile I wanted to see every day for the rest of my life.
"Good," he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against mine. "Then don't."
He kissed me then, right there in his kitchen, surrounded by the smell of coffee and eggs and home. And I knew, with a certainty that felt as solid as the man holding me, that I had finally found where I belonged. Not in a house, but in the strong, unexpected, and fiercely loving arms of a soldier who cooked me breakfast and remembered how I took my coffee. It was better than any ending I could have ever traced in my numbers. It was the beginning of everything.
The blissful, post-omelet bubble lasted precisely until my phone, charging on his kitchen counter, buzzed with an incoming call. The screen lit up with the name I'd been hoping to never see again: Leo.
I groaned, dropping my forehead against Clyde's chest. "Ugh. Speak of the devil."
Clyde's body went still. His hand, which had been stroking my back, stilled. "The ex?"
"The one and only." I made no move to answer it. The phone eventually stopped buzzing, only to immediately start up again. "Persistent," I muttered.
"Answer it," Clyde said, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of steel. "Put it on speaker. Let's see what he wants."
I looked up at him. "You sure? It's probably just more whining about how I'm too stubborn for my own good."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "I'm sure."
I sighed and picked up the phone, swiping to answer and hitting the speaker button. "Leo, this really isn't a good time."
"Troy! Thank god." His voice was breathy, anxious. "I've been so worried. After our last call, and then I heard from Sarah Jenkins—you know, whose cousin is a cop in Cedar Rapids?—that there was some kind of incident at your father's funeral? Something involving a… a brawl?" He said the word 'brawl' like it was a contagious disease.
I closed my eyes. Of course. The small-town gossip mill had already churned out a version of events. "It was handled, Leo. It's fine."
"It doesn't sound fine! It sounds terrifying! Troy, you can't just—"
"Leo," I interrupted, my patience wearing thin. Clyde was watching me, his expression unreadable. "What do you want?"
There was a pause on the other end. "I… I want to see you. I need to see you. To make sure you're okay. Can we meet? For coffee? Today?"
I looked at Clyde. His pale eyes were narrowed, his arms crossed over his chest. He gave a single, sharp shake of his head. No.
A week ago, I might have felt guilty. I might have caved. But now, with Clyde's silent, unwavering support solid beside me, Leo's frantic, needy energy just felt… exhausting.
"No, Leo," I said, my voice firm. "I'm not okay, but I'm dealing with it. And I'm not alone. I don't need to meet for coffee. I need you to stop calling me."
The silence on the other end was stunned. Leo wasn't used to being told no. "Is this because of… him? The guy who answered your phone? Is he there right now? Is he making you say this?"
I couldn't help it. I laughed. The idea of Clyde making me do anything was absurd. He simply gave me the strength to do what I should have done years ago.
"Goodbye, Leo," I said, and ended the call. I dropped the phone back on the counter as if it were radioactive.
Clyde was still watching me, but the tension had left his shoulders. A slow, approving smile touched his lips. "Well handled, Nash."
"Thanks." I blew out a breath. "I feel like I should mark that on a calendar. The day I finally got a spine."
"You've always had one," he said, pulling me back into his arms. "You just needed a better reason to use it." He kissed the top of my head. "Speaking of, we should probably head to your place. You'll need clothes. And I need to do a security sweep, make sure it's still clean after we've been gone."
The thought of leaving this sanctuary, this place that already felt more like home than my own sterile townhouse, was deeply unappealing. "Do we have to?"
"Afraid so. Can't live in sweatpants forever. Even if you look good in mine." He gave my backside a light swat. "Go get dressed. I'll drive."
Going back to my house felt like stepping onto a movie set after living in the real world. Everything was exactly as I'd left it: perfectly clean, perfectly quiet, perfectly… empty. It felt cold and hollow compared to the warm, lived-in chaos of Clyde's apartment.
Clyde moved through the rooms with a professional eye, checking windows, scanning the backyard, ensuring no one had tampered with anything. "Place is clean," he announced finally. "But it feels…"
"Like a museum?" I offered, pulling a suitcase from my closet.
"Yeah. That." He came into my bedroom and leaned against the doorframe, watching me pack. "We don't have to stay here. You can stay with me. Permanently."
My heart did a happy little flip. "My lease is pretty ironclad."
"I've broken into fortified compounds guarded by men with automatic weapons," he said deadpan. "I think I can handle your landlord."
I laughed, throwing a pair of socks at him. He caught them without even looking. "Let's just… take it one day at a time. But yes. I'd like that. Staying with you."
The smile he gave me was worth a thousand leases.
We packed a bag with my clothes and, more importantly, my work laptop and external drives. My office felt different with him in it. The numbers on the whiteboard, the case that had once been an abstract puzzle, now felt immediate and dangerous. But with Clyde leaning against my desk, a solid presence of calm strength, the fear was manageable.
We worked side-by-side for the rest of the afternoon, a comfortable silence between us. I dove back into the Meridian Fund, the routing account I'd isolated now glowing on my screen like a beacon. Clyde set up a secure connection on his laptop, communicating with his team in terse, coded messages. It was the most bizarre and perfect domestic scene I could ever imagine.
As evening fell, I realized I was starving. "I'm ordering Thai food," I announced. "And you're going to eat it and not complain that it's not nutritionally optimized for peak operational performance."
He looked up from his screen, a smirk on his face. "Yes, sir."
The food arrived. We ate at my dining table, which I was pretty sure had never been used for actual dining before. We talked about everything and nothing. He told me a story about a botched training exercise that involved a general, a live chicken, and a case of mistaken identity that had me laughing until I cried. I told him about the time I'd accidentally exposed a multi-million-dollar fraud at a pet food company because their CEO had an unhealthy obsession with Abyssinian cats.
It was easy. It was normal. It was everything I'd never known I wanted.
Later, in my bed this time, we made love again. It was different from the frantic, passionate joining of the night before, and different from the tender, worshipful re-discovery of the morning. This was… familiar. Comfortable. A knowing of each other's bodies that was already settling into a blissful, practiced rhythm. It was no less intense, no less earth-shattering, but it was underscored with a profound sense of rightness, of coming home.
Afterward, curled against his side with his arm around me, listening to the steady beat of his heart, I felt a peace so deep it was almost a physical thing.
"You're thinking loud," he murmured into my hair, his voice thick with sleep.
"I was just thinking," I said, tracing a pattern on his chest. "For a forensic accountant who likes things quiet and a Navy SEAL who specializes in chaos… we make a pretty good team."
His arm tightened around me. "The best," he agreed, his voice already slurring with sleep. "Now go to sleep, partner. The numbers will still be there in the morning."
And wrapped in the safety of his arms, in the home we were already building together, I did.
The first sensation was warmth. Not just the warmth of the sun beginning to filter through the blinds, painting stripes across the bed, but a deep, internal warmth that started in the center of my chest and radiated outward. It was the warmth of being utterly, completely safe. I was curled on my side, and behind me, solid and real, was Clyde. His chest was a firm wall against my back, his breath a soft, even rhythm against my neck, one heavy arm draped over my waist, holding me close even in sleep.
I lay perfectly still, savoring the moment. This was a peace I hadn't known was possible. The sharp edges of the world—the grief, the fear, the relentless chase of numbers—were all softened here, in the circle of his arms.
A soft sigh escaped me, a mere exhale of contentment. In response, the arm around my waist tightened infinitesimally. His lips, soft and sleep-warmed, pressed against the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck in a kiss so tender it made my heart clench.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through me.
"Morning," I whispered back, shifting slightly so I could turn within his embrace.
He loosened his hold, allowing me to roll over and face him. In the gentle morning light, he was breathtaking. His features, usually so sharp and defined in their intensity, were relaxed. His hair was adorably rumpled, and his pale blue eyes were soft with sleep and something else, something warm and affectionate that made my breath catch. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face, and it was like watching the sun rise.
"Sleep okay?" he asked, his hand coming up to gently brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead.
"I don't think I've ever slept that well in my life," I admitted, leaning into his touch.
"Good." He leaned in and kissed me, a slow, languid exploration that tasted of sleep and a unique, comforting flavor that was purely him. It was a kiss without demand, full of a quiet, profound happiness. When we finally parted, he rested his forehead against mine. "Bath?" he suggested, his voice a soft rumble.
"A bath sounds perfect."
He slipped out of bed with that innate, silent grace and held out his hand. I took it, letting him lead me into the bathroom. He started the water, testing the temperature with his hand until it sent up plumes of steam, then poured in a capful of liquid that released the soothing, clean scent of sandalwood into the air.
He stepped into the tub first, then held his hands out to guide me in to sit between his legs, my back resting against the solid wall of his chest. The hot water was an instant embrace, lapping at our skin. He wrapped his arms around me, his chin nestled on my shoulder, and we simply sat, cocooned in warmth and silence.
After a moment, his hands began to move through the water. He soaped a soft washcloth and began to wash my arms, my chest, with a reverence that stole my breath. This was no simple cleansing; it was a ritual. Each slow, circular motion of the cloth was a silent vow, a communication of care and devotion that seeped straight into my bones. He paid attention to every part of me, his touch both possessive and worshipful. I melted against him, letting my head fall back against his shoulder, completely surrendering to his ministrations. He was rebuilding me, not with words, but with touch.
When the water began to cool, he helped me out, wrapping me in a large, fluffy towel and drying me with the same tender thoroughness. He dried himself quickly, then took my hand, lacing our fingers together, and led me back to the bedroom. We dressed in simple, comfortable clothes—soft sweatpants and well-worn henleys. The ordinary act felt profoundly intimate.
In the kitchen, he moved with familiar efficiency, making coffee and handing me a mug prepared exactly to my liking. We took our mugs into my office, the place where the cold, hard numbers lived. But today, it felt different. The threat was still there, but it was a shared burden now. He set up his laptop at the corner of my desk, a silent, powerful presence, and we fell into a companionable, focused silence.
I became absorbed in the digital labyrinth, tracing the flow of illicit funds with a new sense of clarity. Hours slipped away unnoticed. Around noon, my body protested the prolonged stillness. I stretched my arms overhead, arching my back in a deep stretch to relieve the tension, a soft groan escaping my lips.
That's when I felt it. An arm slid around my waist from behind. I hadn't heard him move. Clyde's hand found its way under the soft cotton of my henley, his palm warm and slightly rough against the skin of my stomach. I froze, my breath hitching. He nuzzled my neck, his lips finding that exquisitely sensitive spot just below my ear.
"You've been at it for hours," he murmured, his voice a low, delicious vibration against my skin. "Time for a break."
His other hand came up to my shoulder, his strong fingers gently working the tight muscle there. I moaned, leaning back into the solid strength of him, my head lolling back against his shoulder. He took the invitation, dipping his head to place a series of slow, open-mouthed kisses along the column of my neck that made my toes curl.
"Clyde," I breathed, the word a sigh of utter surrender.
He turned my chair around so I was facing him. His eyes were dark with a soft, smoldering intensity that made my heart stutter. He didn't speak. He simply cradled my face in his hands and kissed me. It was a kiss that tasted of shared coffee and unspoken futures, a kiss that felt like a promise.
In one fluid motion, he lifted me from the chair and carried me the few steps to the small sofa in the corner of my office. He laid me down amidst the cushions and followed me down, his body covering mine, his weight a familiar and cherished anchor.
What followed was a slow, breathtaking unraveling. He undressed me with infinite patience, his hands and lips charting a course across my skin as if I were a landscape to be memorized. He whispered against my skin—how beautiful I was, how he'd never felt this kind of peace, how I was his. His words were a soft, steady current pulling me deeper into the moment.
When we finally joined, it was with a slow, breathtaking gentleness that brought a swell of emotion to my throat. It was a deep, soul-level connection that went far beyond the physical. We moved together in a rhythm that was uniquely ours, our eyes locked, sharing breath, sharing souls. It was a silent conversation of trust, of healing, of a love so new and bright it felt like a dawn. The outside world, with all its perils and puzzles, faded into a distant hum. There was only this. Only us.
Afterward, we lay twined together on the sofa, a tangle of limbs and quiet breaths. He held me close, one hand stroking my hair, the other splayed possessively on my back. I listened to the strong, steady beat of his heart under my ear, a rhythm more comforting than any silence I'd ever known.
He pressed a kiss to my temple, his lips lingering there. "I've got you," he whispered, the words a vow.
And for the first time in my life, I believed it with every fiber of my being. I was home.