Cameron smiled the second he felt that little content exhale ghost across his shirt.

There it was.

The part of her that kept trying to act like she was issuing threats while half-buried in his chest like she’d already decided his body was a perfectly reasonable place to spend the rest of the night.

It was getting harder and harder not to call her on that.

So instead he let his hand drift slowly up and down her back beneath the blanket, broad and warm through the soft cotton of her shirt, and looked down at the top of her head with a kind of fondness that felt almost embarrassingly full.

“Yeah,” he murmured after a second, smile still sitting low in his voice. “You do have excellent taste. That’s pretty much the whole problem.”

It was half tease, half confession, and both of them knew it.

Because that had been the thing all night, hadn’t it? Not just that Lucy noticed things. It was that she knew what belonged. Knew what stayed. Knew what had bones and what was only taking up air. And once she decided, she moved with this quiet, merciless certainty that made everything else look slower and less alive by comparison.

He could feel her smile a little more against his chest at that, and it nearly wrecked him all over again.

Then came his apartment.

His poor, perfectly decent apartment.

Cameron huffed a laugh and tipped his head back against the pillows like he was being unfairly maligned in his own absence. “First of all, my place is not some condemned bachelor cave waiting for county intervention.”

The protest came easy. Warm. A little too amused to count as real outrage.

“I’ve got actual things in there. A couch that doesn’t look like it was stolen from a break room. A coffee table I built myself. Two framed prints that are hanging straight because I measured them like a grown man with principles.” A beat. “And a plant that has made it through eight months under my care, which frankly deserves public recognition.”

That all earned its place.

But she wasn’t wrong either, and he knew it.

There was, in fact, one piece.

One deeply indefensible piece—except to him, which made it worse.

He glanced down at her, already smiling like he knew exactly how little this was going to help his case.

“I do,” he admitted, “have one tragic piece of furniture.”

His hand slowed at her back.

“And before you get smug, I’m gonna defend it.”

Of course he was.

“It’s an old black futon.”

There. Said aloud. No taking it back.

He felt a laugh building in his chest even before he finished the sentence, because he could practically hear what her face would do if she sat up and looked at him right then.

But Cameron only grinned and kept going, fully committed now.

“And I need it on the record that futons are wildly disrespected as a category. People act like they’re a moral failure when really they’re one of the most versatile forms of furniture ever invented.”

His tone had gone mock-righteous in the way it did when he was enjoying himself too much to stop.

“That thing has been a couch, a guest bed, a movie-night setup, and once—very heroically—a landing zone after I twisted my ankle and couldn’t make it all the way to the bedroom without seeing stars.”

He lifted his brows, even though she couldn’t quite see them from where she was tucked in.

“So no, it is not tragic.” A tiny pause. “It is superior. It has range.”

The laugh came out of him fully then, low and quiet in the warm dark, and he bent to press a kiss into her hair before going on.

“Ugly, maybe. A little suspicious structurally, sure. But superior.”

There. Case made.

Mostly.

His hand slid lower, settling at her waist, thumb tracing once through the fabric of her shirt as he thought about the rest of what she’d said—about the slow, quiet way she’d change the place, not with force but with patience. A lamp. Better light. Softer edges. Frames that made more sense. A room he’d walk into one day and feel calmer in without being able to point to the exact reason why.

That got him worse than the futon confession had.

Because of course that was how she’d do it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Not marching in with a clipboard and declaring war on every flat surface.

Lucy would rearrange a life the same way she rearranged a window display—one thing at a time, until suddenly the whole room was breathing different and you didn’t know how you’d ever lived with it the old way.

And God help him, the idea was kind of appealing.

More than kind of.

He smiled into the dark for a second before he said, quieter now, “That whole plan sounds very you.”

He shifted just enough to tuck her a little closer, hand steady at her side.

“One lamp. One blanket. One print that makes the whole wall make sense. Then I wake up six weeks later with lower blood pressure and better lighting and no idea how it happened.” His mouth tipped. “That’s not a threat, Luce. That’s good management.”

And he meant that too.

The truth was, the picture of her fingerprints showing up slowly around his place—nothing obvious, just small signs that she’d seen it and quietly made it better—did something warm and dangerous to him that he was not going to unpack too hard at one in the morning if he wanted any chance of sleeping.

Then there was the mirror.

That one had gotten him from the second she started telling it.

Because of course the best thing she’d ever found was buried under ugly seasonal junk in a store that sounded faintly criminal, guarded by a cat with opinions. Of course she’d almost driven past it. Of course the first room had tried its best to scare off anyone with taste. And of course the thing itself wasn’t perfect—just chipped and dulled down in exactly the way that made it feel like it had already lived before it got to her.

He could see her dragging it forward by herself. Could see her narrowing her eyes at the junk around it and knowing, instantly, that the rest of the drive had already paid off.

“That mirror tracks,” he said softly, the humor in him easing into something warmer. “Not because it sounded fancy. Because it didn’t.”

He looked down at her more fully now, eyes moving over the crown of her hair, the soft line of her cheek where it pressed to his chest, the hand still resting over his heart like it had found the right place and stayed.

“You saw it under all that ugly stuff and knew exactly what it was supposed to do.” His thumb moved once against her side. “That’s the part I like.”

Not the find itself. The knowing.

“The way you told it…” He let out a small breath. “It wasn’t really about the mirror, was it?”

He wasn’t asking her to answer. He already knew.

“It was that feeling. When something clicks into place so hard you don’t have to talk yourself into it. You just know.”

That sat there for a second in the dark between them.

Then Cameron smiled again, softer this time.

“And I get why you didn’t tell me where it is. I would’ve gone in there and looked at that thing like I’d personally done something heroic by asking about it.”

He could admit that much.

“Which, to be clear, I did not. You did the driving, the lifting, and apparently the full deranged-widow hauling sequence by yourself. I’m just admiring good instincts after the fact.”

His mouth brushed the top of her head again, half kiss, half smile.

But the part that stayed with him most wasn’t even the story.

It was what came after.

That soft, almost reluctant little admission that she liked that he’d asked in the first place.

He felt that all over again now, sitting warmer under his ribs the longer he thought about it.

Most people asked what sold. What tourists bought. What made sense on paper.

He hadn’t wanted that. Hadn’t even thought to want it.

Because the answer that mattered most to him had always been something closer to: what did Lucy choose when nobody else was deciding for her?

What did she keep?

What did she claim?

What did she love enough to bring home?

So he let his fingers drift once along her waist and said, low and honest, “Yeah. I know.”

Not smug. Not self-congratulatory.

Just simple.

“I asked because what stays with you tells me a hell of a lot more than whatever moves fastest off the floor.”

That was the center of it.

What lasted. What fit. What earned a place.

He understood that better now than he had at seventeen. Maybe that was part of why this version of him could sit here with her and know what questions actually mattered.

The room stayed quiet for a beat after that, warm and sleepy and close, and Cameron found himself listening to the sound of her breathing against his chest like it was something he wanted memorized.

Then he ruined the softness just enough to keep them both from dissolving in it completely.

“Also,” he said, tone easing back toward playful, “I need you to understand that if you ever do make executive decisions in my apartment, you are under strict instructions to go easy on the futon.”

He paused.

“Everything else is negotiable. But if I come home and find you’ve erased the only piece of furniture in my possession with multiple survival stories, I am filing an appeal.”

His hand smoothed down her back again, slower this time, affectionate and absentminded, like he didn’t need permission anymore to touch her this way and still somehow hadn’t stopped being grateful for it.

“And I know exactly how this would go, too,” he added. “You’d act all innocent. There’d be a lamp where no lamp had ever been before. Some decent throw somehow appearing out of thin air. The room would smell less like guy and more like actual adulthood.” His mouth pulled crooked. “Then six weeks later I’d realize I’d been domestically infiltrated and be too comfortable to stop it.”

That thought pleased him far more than he was willing to state plainly.

Maybe because the picture of it wasn’t really about the lamp. Or the throw. Or the prints.

It was about her being there enough to leave a trace.

He let that live quietly under the joke where it belonged for now.

Then he ducked his head and pressed another kiss to her temple, lingering just long enough for it to feel like an answer to everything she hadn’t said out loud.

When he drew back, his voice was gentler.

“So yeah,” he murmured. “You’ve got good taste.”

A small beat.

“Excellent, actually.”

His fingers spread once at her waist, settling her a fraction closer as if to underline it.

“In mirrors. In shop bones. In weird little systems.” His mouth tipped, warm and fond and just shy of too much. “Questionable choices in men notwithstanding.”

That last line came low and teasing, but there wasn’t any edge in it. Just the kind of self-aware affection that belonged to the version of him she was getting now—the one who could admit the old damage without turning the whole room into penance.

Then he breathed out a soft laugh and looked down at where her arm had curled more securely around him under the blanket, at the way she’d tucked herself in like she hadn’t quite realized how fully she’d settled there.

He could’ve called it out. Could’ve teased her for it. Could’ve told her exactly how not-subtle that sleepy little content sound had been.

He didn’t.

He just tightened his arm around her a little and said, with quiet satisfaction woven all through it, “A month, huh?”

The words skimmed over her hair.

“Baby steps. One suspiciously better lamp at a time.”

He smiled into the warm dark after saying it, eyes slipping shut for half a second as he let himself enjoy the feel of her there against him.

Then, without opening them yet, he added, softer and more amused than before, “I’m still not givin’ up the futon easy, though.”

A pause.

“That thing’s got seniority.”

Lucy had been listening.

Mostly.

At least in theory.

She heard the part about the couch.
The coffee table.
The plant that had apparently survived long enough to qualify for military honors.
The framed prints hung with principles, which was such an aggressively Cameron thing to say that it almost made her laugh again.

But then—

futon.

And everything else in her brain came to a complete, screeching halt.

She lifted her head just enough to stare up at him.

Actually stared.

Not blinking.
Not helping him out.
Not pretending she had somehow misheard.

His arm was still around her. Her cheek was still warm from where it had been pressed into his chest. Her body was still very much tucked into his like she belonged there.

And still—

“…a futon?” she repeated slowly, like she was trying to verify a medical diagnosis.

Her face did something deeply unimpressed.

Not cruel.
Just profoundly disappointed on behalf of all available square footage.

Then she looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Long enough for the disappointment to fully register.

A silent, deeply personal kind of judgment.

The kind that said I was beginning to think highly of you and now I have to reevaluate everything.

“Cameron.”

A beat.

“No.”

She said it softly, but with the kind of certainty usually reserved for natural disasters and tax fraud.

Then she squinted at him a little harder, like maybe if she looked long enough the sentence would rearrange itself into something less offensive.

It did not.

And the worst part?

He was defending it.

Not casually, either.
Not with shame.
With conviction.

Her mouth fell open a fraction.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, scandalized. “You’re serious.”

The laugh that tried to break through got caught somewhere between disbelief and affection, and she buried half of it by dropping her face back down for one second against his chest like she needed to regroup.

It didn’t work.

Because now she was smiling.

Which was absolutely not the point.

She lifted her head again, cheeks a little pink from laughing and from him and from the fact that he had just looked at her like that and then followed it up by confessing to owning what sounded like the physical embodiment of a freshman apartment.

“I need you to understand,” she said, voice low and dry and devastatingly awake again now, “that I was fully prepared to respect your space.”

A beat.

“I was gonna be subtle. Thoughtful. Mature.”

Her brows lifted.

“But you have forfeited some of your rights by saying the word futon in this bed.”

That got her.

Her nose wrinkled, and she shifted up onto one elbow a little more so she could see him properly, her oversized shirt slipping a little at the shoulder, hair rumpled from the pillows and his hands and the entire ridiculous emotional rollercoaster of the night.

She looked soft.

And entirely unconvinced.

“You don’t get to say things like ‘it has range’ and expect me to leave that unattended.”

Her eyes narrowed faintly.

“That’s not furniture, that’s a cry for help.”

There was no real bite in it.

Only the warm, easy kind of meanness she only ever got with people she liked enough to be unfiltered around.

And God, she liked him right now.

Which was probably why this felt so stupidly easy.

Why she could be half-curled into him one second and fully prepared to launch a personal attack against his interior design judgment the next without it feeling like whiplash.

Lucy studied his face for another second, clearly imagining the crime scene.

Then she sighed.

Long.
Quiet.
Deeply burdened.

“I can’t make promises,” she informed him.

And there it was.

The line.

Delivered with all the solemnity of a woman being asked to ignore structural damage in a home she hadn’t even entered yet.

Her fingers slid absently over the center of his chest again while she talked, but now her eyes had gone a little distant in that way they always did when she was mentally rearranging a room she hadn’t seen in person yet.

“Like, I’m hearing you,” she said. “I respect that it apparently survived war, injury, and male decision-making.”

A tiny pause.

“But if I walk into your apartment and it looks like one of those places where every surface is either black, gray, or emotionally unavailable?”

Her mouth twitched.

“I’m not responsible for what happens.”

She let that breathe for a second.

Then, more thoughtfully:

“Also, what kind of futon are we talking?”

Her eyes flicked back up to his immediately.

“This is important.”

She shifted a little closer without even thinking about it, propped up just enough now that she could look him in the face while interrogating him properly.

“Like, ugly dorm futon?” she asked. “Metal frame? Thin mattress? Looks like it’s hosted at least three bad movie nights and one deeply avoidant situationship?”

A beat.

“Or are we talking faux-grown-up futon. Like ‘I’m trying to trick women into thinking I’m emotionally developed because I own one nice lamp and a neutral blanket’ futon?”

She watched him for half a second, then her mouth curved.

Actually curved.

Because she could already tell from his expression that he was going to defend this thing like it had once saved a child from a burning building.

And honestly?

That was making her like him even more, which was annoying.

Her face softened just slightly around the edges.

Not enough to lose the joke.
Just enough to let the fondness show through it.

“I’m not saying I’d get rid of it immediately,” she added, and that was about as close to mercy as she was willing to offer. “I’m just saying… if it mysteriously ended up with a throw blanket and maybe a pillow that didn’t look like it came free with a truck purchase—”

She gave the smallest shrug.

“Who can say.”

Then she looked at him one more time.

Long.
Quiet.
Full of exaggerated disappointment.

Like she truly could not believe this was the same man who had spent the entire evening being thoughtful and hot and emotionally articulate only to ruin it all with futon.

Then, with the deepest sigh of resignation, she laid her head back down on his chest.

Settled there.

Tucked in again like she hadn’t just questioned his moral framework.

Her arm slid a little tighter around him under the blanket, and her cheek pressed warm against his shirt as she finally let herself go still again.

From there, voice softer now and slightly muffled, she added:

“But if it’s genuinely hideous…”

A tiny pause.

“…I’m gonna need time to process before I can be supportive.”

Lucy stayed where she was for a few quiet seconds after that, cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the low rise and fall of his breathing like she hadn’t just put his entire apartment under active investigation.

But now the problem was—

she was curious.

And once Lucy got curious about something, it was basically over for everybody involved.

Especially him.

Her fingers, which had been resting lazily against the center of his chest, started moving again in absent little patterns while her brain clearly kept going without asking permission. She was quiet just long enough for it to be suspicious.

Then she tipped her chin up slightly, not fully lifting her head this time, just enough that her voice could come out clearer against his shirt.

“Okay, wait.”

A beat.

“I have more questions.”

There was a sleepy seriousness to it that made it worse somehow.

Like this was now an official matter.

Her brows pinched faintly as she thought.

“Do you own proper plates?”

She let that sit there for one second before continuing, increasingly concerned.

“And I mean actual plates, Cameron. Ceramic. Glass. Something with weight to it.”

A tiny pause.

“Not, like, six paper plates left over from a cookout and one bowl you’ve had since college.”

She shifted just enough to angle her face up more, finally looking at him again with that same low, suspicious disappointment she’d already hit him with over the futon.

“And glassware,” she added. “Do not answer too quickly. Think carefully.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Are you drinking water out of real glasses? Or are you one of those men who somehow only owns two mugs, three random pint glasses, and one deeply clouded plastic cup from 2017?”

That one got her mouth twitching.

Because she could picture it too easily.

A kitchen cabinet that opened like a cry for help.
One chipped bowl.
A single steakhouse cup.
Maybe an old protein shaker bottle lurking somewhere like a threat.

Lucy studied his face for a second, trying to read the truth before he even said it.

Then she gasped softly.

Not because she actually knew.

Because the possibility had just occurred to her.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, scandalized all over again. “Do you have matching silverware?”

That one she actually lifted her head for.

Just enough to look at him properly, hair mussed and eyes bright with the kind of late-night energy that only came from being too comfortable and too entertained at once.

“This is important,” she said again, dead serious.

“Because there are two kinds of men.”

A beat.

“Men who accidentally have one weird tiny spoon from nowhere and just keep using it forever…”

Her brows lifted.

“…and men who buy an adult set and act like they’ve conquered civilization.”

She looked him over with slow, theatrical scrutiny.

“You could go either way, honestly.”

Then, because she was fully committed now, she propped herself up a little more on his chest and kept going.

“Also what’s in your fridge?”

Her expression shifted into something halfway between accusation and scientific inquiry.

“Be honest.”

A tiny pause.

“Is it groceries?”

Another.

“Or is it, like, mustard, eggs, one beer, and vibes?”

That made her laugh softly under her breath, but she kept talking through it.

“And don’t try to impress me either. I’m not asking what you bought this week because a woman might eventually see it.”

Her mouth curved.

“I’m asking what lives there naturally.”

She let her hand flatten against his chest again and gave him one more very specific, very Lucy look.

“The baseline, Cameron.”

A beat.

“What’s the baseline?”

Cameron listened to the whole interrogation like a man who understood, somewhere around the second question about glassware, that he was no longer defending a futon.

He was defending his entire character.

And honestly?

The worst part was that he was enjoying himself.

Not the slander, exactly.
Though some of it was pretty funny.

The part he liked—the part he was trying not to grin too hard about—was the way she kept going. The sleepy seriousness of it. The fact that she was half-buried in his chest, warm and rumpled and clearly winding down for the night, and still felt compelled to launch a full domestic background check because now that she’d gotten curious, apparently his cabinets had become a matter of public concern.

That did something warm and stupid to him.

So he let her finish.

All the way through the plates and the glasses and the silverware and the fridge baseline, his hand moving lazily up and down her back while his mouth kept threatening to smile wider than the moment required. By the time she got to the one weird little spoon, he had to look away for a second just to keep the laugh from breaking across his face too soon.

Then he looked back down at her.

Really looked.

At the mussed hair and the bright, suspicious eyes and the very serious little line between her brows, like his kitchen setup might determine the future of western civilization.

“First of all,” he said, voice low and warm with amusement, “the fact that you’re conductin’ a full inspection from under your blanket feels like abuse of power.”

His hand slid up, fingertips brushing slow over the back of her shoulder before settling again.

“Second—I need it officially noted that my apartment is not nearly as tragic as you’ve decided it is in your head.”

That was true.
Mostly.

He tipped his head back against the pillow and answered properly, because he had a feeling if he got cute and evasive she’d smell it immediately and get worse.

“I have real plates,” he told her. “Four of them. Ceramic. Dark gray. Heavy enough that if you dropped one on your foot you’d remember it.”

A beat.

“And bowls. Matching bowls.”

He let that land with all the dignity it deserved.

“Glasses too. Actual ones. Regular water glasses. Not just random pint glasses and old mugs from college.”

He smiled a little then, because there was no point pretending he wasn’t at least a little pleased with himself for exceeding what were, frankly, some pretty bleak expectations.

“There is one mug I’ve had forever that I’m keepin’, though. It’s chipped on the handle and ugly as sin, but I drink coffee out of it every Saturday morning, and if you come for that one, we’re gonna have a problem.”

That part came light, but the affection in it was real. Not just for the mug, really—for the idea that he was already talking like she might someday be in a position to come for it.

Then came the silverware.

That got a laugh.

Not because he was guilty.

Because he was almost guilty, and somehow that was worse.

“I bought a real set,” he said. “Adult decision. Very noble. Thought I deserved some kind of certificate for it.”

His eyes dropped to hers again, brows lifting slightly.

“But.”

There it was.

“There is one little spoon.”

He saw the victory coming before it even got to her face.

“One weird tiny spoon,” he corrected, because accuracy mattered. “And before you judge me, it came with the place.”

That was absolutely not true, and the look on his face said he knew she knew it.

“It didn’t, actually,” he admitted. “I have no idea where it came from. But it’s useful. You can’t get rid of a spoon that useful on principle alone.”

His thumb moved once at her side.

“It’s good for coffee. And peanut butter. And whatever else requires commitment but not a full-sized utensil.”

He said it with complete seriousness, which only made it worse.

The fridge made him grin outright.

“Baseline’s not bad,” he said. “Not glamorous. But not a crime scene either.”

He shifted a little, settling deeper into the bed with her still tucked against him, voice easy in the warm dark.

“I usually have eggs. Chicken if I remembered to go to the store after work. Some kind of vegetables that I swear I’m gonna cook before they turn on me. Yogurt. Cheese. Hot sauce. Beer. Water. Maybe leftover takeout if the week got away from me.”

A small pause.

“And mustard, obviously. That part of your accusation was fair.”

He exhaled softly through his nose, smile still there.

“It is not one beer and vibes.”

Then, because he wasn’t above defending his dignity in full, he added, “And I cook.”

That got a little more shape to it. More certainty.

“Not in a weird performative ‘watch me chop herbs’ way. Just regular human food.” His mouth tipped. “Breakfast. Pasta. Chicken. Chili when it’s cold out. I can make a decent burger. I grill.”

He looked down at her again, expression warmer now beneath the teasing.

“So no, my kitchen is not opening up like a cry for help.”

It might not have been impressive by Lucy standards. It might not have had labeled jars and effortlessly beautiful ceramics and the kind of quiet curation she probably managed without even thinking about it.

But it was his.
And it worked.
And it wasn’t as doomed as she seemed determined to believe.

The futon, though.

That still had to be handled.

Cameron huffed a breath and looked at the ceiling like he was summoning patience for a trial he had no business losing.

“It’s not metal,” he said first, because that apparently mattered. “And it doesn’t look like it hosted a bunch of tragic college movie nights under fluorescent lighting.”

A beat.

“It’s old, yeah. Black frame. Thick mattress. Solid enough that it doesn’t fold weird or squeak or threaten to end your bloodline when you sit on it.”

His hand moved again at her back, the rhythm of it absentminded and warm.

“And it stays because it’s useful. My cousin crashed on it for two weeks after his apartment flooded. I slept on it when I twisted my ankle because I couldn’t get comfortable in bed. It’s been around long enough that replacing it now feels less like furniture shopping and more like betrayal.”

That last part came with a smile, because he knew how ridiculous it sounded.

But he meant it anyway.

“It’s not pretty,” he admitted. “I’m not gonna insult your intelligence. But it’s dependable.”

And there was something about that word, spoken softly at one in the morning with her curled against him, that made the rest of the joke sit a little lower in the room than he’d expected.

He didn’t lean into that too hard.

Just let it stay there.

Then he looked back down at her, eyes warm and a little too entertained for a man under this kind of scrutiny.

“But if you’re this concerned,” he said, “there’s a real simple solution.”

He paused just long enough for the line to breathe, but not long enough to make it feel rehearsed.

“Come over sometime and see it for yourself.”

There it was.

Easy.
Unforced.
As if the thought had only just occurred to him.

It hadn’t.

Not really.

It had been there the whole time, tucked underneath her questions and her sleepy little cross-examination and the fact that she was clearly already building his place in her mind one unseen room at a time.

He’d rather let her walk into it and decide.
Let her see the prints and the couch and the plant he’d somehow managed not to kill. Let her open the cabinets if she wanted to. Let her inspect the kitchen baseline and judge the little spoon in person.

Mostly, if he was being honest, he wanted to watch her in it.

Wanted to see what her face would do when she took the place in.
Wanted to know which corners she’d notice first.
Wanted to see if she’d look at his apartment the way she looked at the things she chose to keep.

The thought of it sat warm in his chest.

His fingers spread lightly over her back.

“I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “You can stop running worst-case scenarios and just come look.”

Then, because he was still him and couldn’t help the smile at the edge of it, he added, “Conduct a full audit. Open cabinets. Check the silverware drawer. File a formal report on the futon.”

His mouth pulled crooked.

“I’ll survive.”

That got him a little closer to the truth of what he meant without forcing the whole thing open too fast.

Because yes, he was teasing.
But he was also inviting her.
Really inviting her.

Not in the abstract.
Not in the safe little maybe-someday way people said things they didn’t actually intend to follow through on.

He meant: come over.
Come see where I live.
Come know that part too.

And the simple intimacy of that settled in him more deeply than he expected.

Cameron bent his head and pressed a kiss into her hair, then rested there for a second before speaking again.

“You know what the best part is, though?” he murmured.

A tiny pause.

“The fact that you’re askin’ me about my baseline at all.”

He smiled against the top of her head before lifting it again.

Not because the questions were funny—though they were.
Not because he enjoyed being accused of emotionally unavailable surfaces and morally suspicious flatware—though apparently he kind of did.

Because it meant she was picturing it.
His place. His life. The ordinary, unpolished parts of it.

And there was something about that—about Lucy being curious enough to want the unglamorous version—that got him in a place charm couldn’t really touch.

He looked at her with all that still warm in his face.

“That’s not nothin’, Luce.”

The nickname landed soft.
Easy.
Like it had found its way home and stayed there.

His hand eased her a fraction closer again, almost imperceptibly, like his body had decided she belonged there and was acting accordingly.

“And for the record,” he added, “if you do come over and you hate the futon on sight, I expect at least twenty-four hours before sentencing.”

A beat.

“Fair trial. Representation. The works.”

His voice had gone sleepier around the edges now, though the amusement was still there, lit low and steady.

“But I’m tellin’ you right now—you’re gonna walk in ready to be offended, and then you’re gonna realize my place is fine.”

His mouth curved.

“Not your level of terrifyingly specific taste, maybe. But fine.”

That was as close as he got to conceding anything.

A little farther, because she was warm and the room was dark and the hour made honesty easier, he added, “It feels like me.”

Simple.
Plain.
Just enough.

Maybe that was why he was suddenly less interested in defending it and more interested in her seeing it.

Not because he needed her approval.
Because if this thing between them was going to keep unfolding the way it had tonight, then he wanted her to know where he sat on Saturday mornings with the chipped mug. Wanted her to see the counter where he chopped vegetables badly, the couch where he watched games, the dumb loyal futon he was still not giving up without a fight.

Wanted her to know those rooms too.

He let that linger for a second before smiling again, softer this time.

“And if you’re nice,” he murmured, “I’ll even let you inspect the fridge without warning me first.”

The line sat light between them.

Then Cameron looked down at where she’d curled herself more securely around him, at the hand still warm over his chest, and something in him settled.

He stroked once down the length of her back, slow and careful.

“Come over,” he said again, quieter now, all the teasing eased down into something steadier. “Whenever you want.”

Not pressure.
Not expectation.

Just open.

And because he couldn’t leave it there without one last bit of warmth dragging a smile back into his voice, he added, “Though maybe brace yourself for the little spoon. He’s got tenure.”

Lucy stayed quiet for a second after he said it.

Come over. Whenever you want.

The words didn’t land in her like some giant dramatic thing.

Which was somehow worse.

Because they landed exactly where all the dangerous ones did—softly. Cleanly. Like they belonged there before she had time to put her guard up around them.

And that was always what got her with him.

Not when he was charming.
Not when he was funny.
Not even when he was being unfairly handsome in low light with that stupidly calm voice of his and one hand dragging slow up and down her back like he had all the time in the world.

It was when he said things simply.

Like he meant them.
Like he wasn’t trying to impress her.
Like he was just… opening a door and standing there.

Lucy’s mouth twitched against his chest before she finally spoke.

“The little spoon having tenure is honestly the most believable thing you’ve said all night.”

Her voice came out muffled by his shirt, but the smile in it was obvious.

She lifted her head just enough to look at him again, and the second she caught the warmth still sitting in his face, she felt that familiar stupid little flush creep up the back of her neck.

Annoying.

Deeply annoying.

Because he kept looking at her like she was doing something to him just by existing and asking invasive questions about his kitchen setup, and unfortunately that was beginning to have an effect.

“You’re lucky you recovered with the real plates thing,” she informed him, brows lifting faintly. “Because paper plates would’ve been genuinely hard to come back from.”

A tiny pause.

“The spoon is survivable. Barely.”

Then her eyes narrowed just slightly again.

“And I need it on the record that ‘it feels like me’ is exactly the kind of thing that makes me suspicious.”

Not because she didn’t like it.

Because she did.

Too much, probably.

That was the problem.

Her fingers flattened against the center of his chest, and she gave him one more look—equal parts fond and skeptical and quietly wrecked by the fact that she could already picture it. His apartment. His couch. The dumb futon. The mug. The little spoon. All the boring, ordinary parts of his life he had just… offered her.

That was what made her heart feel weird.

Not some huge grand gesture.

Just the thought of standing in his kitchen while he reached around her for a glass.
The thought of seeing what his Saturday mornings looked like.
The thought of being let into somewhere that wasn’t polished for company, just lived in.

Lucy exhaled softly through her nose and gave a tiny, almost reluctant shake of her head.

“That’s rude, by the way,” she muttered.

His brows twitched faintly like he was about to ask what was rude, but she kept going before he could.

“You can’t just casually invite me into your domestic baseline and expect me to act normal about it.”

That got her own smile going a little more despite herself.

“Like, what am I supposed to do with that now?” she asked, quieter.

A beat.

“Just go to sleep knowing there’s a deeply defended black futon and a tiny unionized spoon waiting for me somewhere across town?”

Her tone stayed dry, but something in it had softened around the edges without her permission.

Because under all of that, the real thing was still sitting there.

He meant it.

And she knew he meant it.

That was what kept getting her tonight.

Lucy looked at him for another second, then did the only thing that felt right in the middle of all that sudden, warm, mildly terrifying sincerity—

she moved.

Slowly.

No big announcement.
No teasing setup.
No warning.

She shifted up and over him in one lazy, sleepy little motion, untangling just enough to roll higher across his body until she was half sprawled over him properly now, one leg sliding over his waist and then the other following until she was draped over him like she’d decided his body was now structurally useful.

Her cheek came down against the center of his chest again, this time higher, closer to his heartbeat.

His arms came around her on instinct immediately.

Like there hadn’t been any other possible outcome.

Lucy let out a tiny breath the second he settled her there, all warm and heavy and tucked in, and if she’d had any dignity left, it probably should’ve objected.

It didn’t.

She just stayed there, listening to his heart under her ear while one hand rested over the center of his chest and the other curled loosely near his side.

And then, because her brain unfortunately never stopped when it was least convenient, she said the thing she hadn’t meant to say out loud.

“…Are we really doing this?”

The question came out quiet.
Not panicked.
Not sharp.

Just… bewildered.

Honest in that small, late-night way honesty always was when the room was dark and somebody’s heartbeat was under your cheek.

Lucy frowned faintly against his shirt, not because she was upset—because she was trying to make sense of it in real time.

“I don’t even mean the apartment,” she murmured, voice sleepier now, more like she was thinking directly into him than talking to him.

“Although that also feels suspiciously intimate, for the record.”

A tiny pause.

“I mean…” She shifted her cheek slightly against his chest, eyes unfocused now, just staring somewhere into the middle distance of his T-shirt. “Us.”

That word sat there softly.

No dramatic weight on it.
No panic around it.
Just truth.

Her fingers made one small absent circle over his sternum.

“Like…” she said slowly, clearly trying to follow her own thought while she spoke it, “a few weeks ago I was fully prepared to continue being deeply irritated by your face in public forever.”

A beat.

“And now I’m in your arms conducting a household inventory and apparently considering a future home visit.”

Her mouth twitched faintly against his chest.

“That feels medically concerning.”

But even that came out gentler than the joke deserved.

Because the real thing was still there underneath it.

Lucy went quiet for a second, then tipped her head just enough to look up at him from where she was laid over him, chin resting lightly on his chest now.

Her hair was a little messy.
Her face was soft with sleep and too much honesty.
And her expression held that particular kind of vulnerability she only ever seemed to slip into when she wasn’t trying to be impressive at all.

“I think I’m just…” she started, then stopped.

Tried again.

“I think I’m a little thrown off by how easy this feels.”

There it was.

That was the real sentence.

Her eyes stayed on his.

“Not easy like simple,” she added quickly, because that mattered. “Obviously. We are objectively kind of a mess.”

A tiny beat.

“But easy like…” Her brows pinched slightly as she searched for it. “Like I’m not trying that hard.”

Her hand pressed a little flatter to his chest.

“I’m not overthinking every single thing I say.”

A lie, technically, because she absolutely still was. But less than usual.

“And that should probably be more alarming to me than it is.”

Her mouth pulled into the faintest sleepy smile after that.

“Instead I’m mostly just…”

She let the sentence hang for one second too long.

Then admitted it.

“…really comfortable.”

That one came out so quietly it almost disappeared.

But it didn’t.

It stayed there between them, warm and open and impossible to take back.

Lucy immediately made a face like she regretted being that sincere for free.

“Which is gross,” she added under her breath. “Just so we’re clear.”

Then she laid her head back down on his chest again before she could be looked at too hard.

Because that was enough of that.

But even tucked back into him, even pretending to retreat from it, she didn’t actually pull away from the thought.

If anything, she settled more fully into it.

Into him.

Her legs stayed hooked around his waist beneath the blanket, her body warm and heavy over his, like she’d unconsciously chosen the closest possible version of this and was only just now catching up to what that meant.

Her voice came quieter this time.

Muffled again against his chest.

More to herself than to him.

“I think that’s what’s weirding me out.”

A small pause.

“That I’m not really fighting it.”

Her fingers moved once, absently, against his shirt.

“Like I probably should be more suspicious. Or more dramatic. Or at least make you suffer a little longer for character development.”

A tiny breath of a smile.

“But instead I’m just…”

She trailed off again.

Then finally finished it, soft and plain:

“…here.”

And she was.

That was the whole thing, maybe.

Not planning twelve steps ahead.
Not bolting.
Not pretending this was casual if it wasn’t.
Not trying to turn it into a joke fast enough to outrun the feeling.

Just here.

In his bed.
On his chest.
Listening to his heartbeat.
Thinking too much and not enough all at once.

Lucy closed her eyes for a second and let out one last sleepy little sigh.

Then, after a beat, she muttered:

“If your apartment turns out to be ugly, though, this entire emotional breakthrough is getting delayed.”

That one she meant entirely. Mostly.

And then she just stayed there.

For a second after she asked it, Cameron didn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t have one.

Because he did.

Too many, actually.

Too many ways to say yes, I think we are. Too many ways to tell her that the weight of her draped over him felt so right it was almost impossible not to get scared of it. Too many ways to admit that hearing her say comfortable in that small, reluctant voice had gone straight through him and lodged somewhere tender.

So he just held her first.

One hand spread broad and warm between her shoulder blades, the other resting low at her side beneath the blanket, keeping her tucked there while her cheek stayed over his heart and her legs remained looped around his waist like her body had made a decision before the rest of her caught up.

And God, that got him.

Not in the hot, dizzy way she’d been getting him all night.

In the quieter one. The deeper one.

The kind that made his chest feel almost too full when she admitted she wasn’t fighting it.

That she was just here.

Cameron let out a slow breath and tipped his head enough to press his mouth into her hair.

A kiss first. Then another, lighter. Like he was answering before the words came.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low enough that she probably felt it in his chest before she fully heard it. “I think we are.”

He didn’t rush past it after that.

Didn’t pin it down harder than it needed to be. Didn’t start naming future things just because the opening was there.

He knew better now.

So his hand moved in one long, unhurried stroke down her back and he added, softer, “Not because it’s simple.”

A beat.

“Just because it’s real.”

That felt closer. Closer to what she was actually asking.

Because she wasn’t asking whether it was perfect. Or clean. Or fixed.

She was asking why it felt like this. Why it didn’t feel like effort and panic and second-guessing the way maybe it should have, given who they’d been and what they’d done to each other and all the years between then and now.

Cameron looked up at the ceiling for half a second, thinking through it, then looked back down at the top of her head with a faint, tired smile.

“I think maybe we did enough fighting it already.”

The line landed gently, not as a grand statement. Just truth.

He thought of all the careful run-ins. The polite nods. The years spent being angry or absent or too late. The weeks of dancing around what was obvious even when it was inconvenient.

Yeah.

He thought they’d probably done enough.

His thumb brushed once at her side through the blanket.

“And for what it’s worth,” he murmured, “comfortable doesn’t sound gross to me.”

That got a warmer shape to his mouth.

“Sounds kind of rare, actually.”

Especially for her. Especially for him.

Especially like this.

He could feel the way she settled a little heavier on him after saying it, like even speaking the truth had let some last bit of tension leak out of her bones, and Cameron tightened his arms around her on instinct. Not trapping. Just holding. The way you did when somebody gave you something fragile and you knew better than to fumble it.

When he spoke again, it came slower, more thoughtful.

“I don’t need you to be more suspicious just because it would make the pacing prettier,” he said, and there was that soft little thread of humor in it now, enough to keep the room from getting too solemn. “And I definitely don’t need you manufacturing character development for me at one in the morning.”

A small pause.

“I’m okay with here.”

That was the center of it, really.

Not fixed. Not figured out. Not wrapped up neatly.

Just here.

Her in his arms. Her room quiet around them. The lamp still warm in the corner. The whole strange, tender, impossible night sitting between them like something alive.

Cameron’s fingers slipped up into her hair at the back of her head, not enough to move her, just enough to smooth once through the soft mess of it.

“And if it helps,” he added, quieter now, “I’m a little thrown off too.”

That part he gave her cleanly.

Not to mirror her just to be good at this. Because it was true.

“You crawlin’ all the way on top of me like this?” His mouth tipped faintly. “That’s not exactly helping me play it cool.”

He felt, more than saw, the tiny shift of her face against his shirt. Maybe the edge of a smile. Maybe embarrassment. Maybe both.

Good.

He liked both.

But the truth underneath it stayed.

“This feels easy to me too,” he said.

There was no hesitation in that.

Then, after a beat, he corrected it the way he knew she’d need it corrected.

“Not easy-easy.” His hand dragged slowly down her back again. “Not because it doesn’t matter.”

He looked toward the dark window for a second, then back down at her.

“Easy like I don’t feel like I’m performin’ around you.”

That one came from somewhere older in him. Somewhere tired of being liked for the simplest version of himself.

“I’m not trying to get it right every second. I’m not trying to win.” He swallowed once. “I’m just… with you.”

And that was the part that still startled him too, if he was being honest.

How different it felt to be with her now. How much steadier. How little swagger survived once it turned into this. How much better it was without it.

He stayed quiet for a second after that, letting her have the shape of it without piling on too much more.

Then, because she’d threatened his apartment and apparently that still needed to be handled for the sake of justice, his mouth brushed the top of her head again and he said, very solemnly, “And if my place offends you enough to derail the breakthrough, I’d at least ask for a written warning before emotional proceedings are postponed.”

That got the smile back into his voice more fully.

“Maybe a yellow card. Something official.”

His hand slipped lower, settling warmly at the base of her spine.

“Though I do think it’s important you know I’ll take being judged for the apartment a lot better now that I know you’re capable of saying objectively kind things to me in bed and then threatening my furniture five minutes later.”

That felt very Lucy. And very them, apparently.

The thought of that made something in him soften all over again.

He turned his face enough to press a kiss near her temple this time, lingering there just long enough for it to feel like comfort instead of punctuation.

Then he said, almost into her hair, “You don’t have to make yourself suffer longer for this to count.”

The line came low and steady.

Not a push. Not permission exactly.

More like a hand held out to the part of her still waiting for the other shoe to drop, the part that thought maybe ease had to be earned through extra pain or suspicion to be trustworthy.

“It still counts,” he murmured. “Even if you’re comfortable.”

That one he meant hard enough to feel it.

His fingers flexed lightly at her side.

“Maybe especially then.”

The room stayed still around them after that.

No cars outside. No voices. Just the soft hum of the house and her breathing against his chest and the slow, even beat of his heart under her ear.

Cameron could’ve kept talking. Could’ve filled the quiet with one more joke, one more warm line, one more thing to try and make her smile into his shirt.

He didn’t.

Instead he just let one hand keep its lazy path over her back, over and over, like maybe if he did it long enough her whole body would trust what his words were saying.

After a while he said, quieter than before, “I like that you’re here.”

Simple. No decoration.

And then, because she’d been brave enough to say what was weirding her out, he gave her the only honest answer he had left.

“I’m real glad you’re not fighting it.”

That stayed between them for a second.

Then his mouth curved a little and he added, more lightly, “Even if your support remains conditional on the apartment not being ugly.”

A tiny pause.

“I can work with that.”

His hand slid once more down her back, slow and sure, and Cameron let himself sink into the feel of her there—warm and heavy and not going anywhere, at least not yet.

And with her sprawled over him in the dark like she’d found the place she wanted to land and was trying not to make a big deal out of it, he realized that maybe her earlier question had a much simpler answer than either of them were making it.

Yeah.

They were really doing this.

Not because they’d planned it well. Not because it was neat. Not because either of them knew what all of it would look like once the sun came up.

Just because, somehow, after everything—

she was here, and he was here, and neither of them wanted to move.

Lucy stayed quiet for a second after that.

Not because she didn’t have anything to say.

Mostly because he’d gone and said too many things that landed exactly where they were supposed to, and now her chest felt annoyingly full and warm and a little too soft for one in the morning.

Which was rude, honestly.

Because how was she supposed to maintain any reasonable level of emotional self-protection when he was down there being all low-voiced and steady and saying things like I’m okay with here and I’m just… with you like he was trying to knock every last defensive wall out of her body one board at a time?

It was deeply inconsiderate of him.

So naturally, Lucy did the only thing available to her.

She lifted one hand slowly from where it had been tucked between them and slid it up the center of his chest.

Past the warm rise of his sternum.
Past the line of his throat.

And then she just put her whole palm over his face.

Fully.

Right over his mouth.

Not hard. Not enough to actually stop him from breathing or anything dramatic.

Just enough to be incredibly annoying.

His next breath puffed warm against her palm, muffled and offended, and Lucy’s shoulders shook once with a sleepy little laugh before she finally lifted her head enough to look down at him.

Her hair was a complete mess now, all soft blonde strands falling over one cheek and across her shoulder, and her face still looked sleep-flushed and warm from where it had been tucked against his chest. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, half-dreamy already, but there was still that familiar little glint in them.

That look that meant she was about to be a problem on purpose.

She stared at him for a second like she was evaluating whether or not he could be trusted with this much sincerity in one evening.

Then her mouth tipped.

“You’re saying…” she murmured, voice all drowsy velvet and amusement, “a lot of things right now.”

A tiny beat.

“Like, an irresponsible amount.”

Her grin spread wider when she felt the shape of his mouth move under her hand, probably trying to defend himself, which was honestly cute but not remotely necessary.

“So I had to intervene,” she informed him softly.

Very serious.
Very official.

Like she’d been forced into emergency action for the good of the household.

Then, because she was already up there and because he was looking at her like that—warm and fond and a little wrecked in a way she was getting increasingly addicted to—Lucy’s expression softened at the edges.

Just a little.

Enough for the teasing to slip into something fonder.

She slid her hand off his face and let her fingers trail down the side of his jaw, brushing the line of it once before her hand settled lightly at his neck.

Then she leaned down.

Slowly.
Sleepily.
Like she had absolutely nowhere else to be.

And pressed a kiss to his lips.

Soft.
Warm.
Unhurried.

Not one of the hot ones from earlier. Not teasing. Not hungry.

Just a quiet little kiss that felt suspiciously like an answer.

A thank-you.
A shut up, I heard you.
A don’t make me actually talk about my feelings again tonight because I’ve already done enough brave things for one evening.

When she pulled back, her nose brushed his once, and she looked at him with the sleepiest, prettiest little grin.

The kind that said she was still being a menace, technically, but maybe only because she liked him too much now to stop.

Then, without asking for permission from anyone, Lucy lowered herself right back down onto him.

Her cheek found his chest again like it had already memorized the spot.
Her arm slid across his middle.
Her body melted back over his like gravity had made a final decision and she was choosing not to argue with it.

One of her legs tucked more comfortably around his waist beneath the blanket. Her fingers curled lazily into his shirt. She let out the tiniest sigh as she resettled—small and warm and completely unselfconscious.

Like she belonged there now.

Which, unfortunately for him, she probably did.

Lucy closed her eyes.

Stayed there for a second.

Then, in the softest, sleepiest little voice, she murmured,

“I’m gonna go to sleep right here.”

A beat.

“Hope that’s okay.”

It was not asked like a real question.

Not even slightly.

The tone alone made that obvious.

It had all the energy of someone notifying him of a decision that had already been finalized, approved, and physically enacted.

And just to really drive the point home, she burrowed one tiny inch closer into him.

Like:
Yes.
Here.
This is where I live now.
Please file complaints during normal business hours.

Her mouth curved faintly against his shirt.

“I wasn’t really askin’,” she admitted, voice muffled and already half-gone.

That part, at least, was honest.

Her hand gave one lazy little pat against his stomach, like she was reassuring him through this difficult transition, and then she tucked her face in deeper against his chest until the steady beat under her ear and the slow glide of his hand over her back made every single bone in her body start to go loose.

The room felt warm.
Quiet.
Still.

The lamp was still throwing that soft little amber glow from the corner.
His skin was warm under her cheek.
His breathing was even beneath her.

And with all of that wrapped around her at once, Lucy felt the last sharp little edges in her finally start to give.

So, because she was too tired now to stop herself from saying one more honest thing before sleep got her, she mumbled, softer this time,

“Your chest is really comfortable.”

A tiny pause.

Then, because she was still Lucy and she had a reputation to maintain:

“Don’t be weird about it.”

Her fingers tightened faintly in his shirt.

And after another second, sleepier still—

“You said too many nice things, so now I’m usin’ you as a pillow.”

That one came out so drowsy it was almost nonsense by the end.

She didn’t lift her head again after that.

Didn’t open her eyes.

Just stayed there, warm and heavy and entirely too settled for someone who had spent years pretending this exact kind of thing would’ve been a terrible idea.

Now, though?

Now she only moved enough to nuzzle once—small and absentminded and half-asleep—closer into the center of his chest before going still again.

And if the tiniest little smile was still tucked into the corner of her mouth when she did—

if she looked, in the low warm dark of her room, suspiciously like someone who had finally found exactly where she wanted to land and had every intention of staying there until morning—

well.

That sounded like Cameron’s problem.

Cameron’s first instinct, when her palm landed over his mouth, was to laugh.

He couldn’t, obviously.

That was sort of the issue.

So the laugh got trapped somewhere lower instead, turning into a warm, muffled breath against her hand while he looked up at her like she had become the single most ridiculous, unfairly pretty problem he had ever had the pleasure of encountering.

And God, she was a problem.

Hair all over the place. Cheeks still warm from the night. Heavy-lidded eyes doing that sleepy, dangerous little glint that meant she knew exactly what she was doing and had no intention of apologizing for it.

He should have been offended, probably.

At least on principle.

Instead, Cameron just looked at her with that helpless, half-wrecked fondness that had been catching him off guard all evening and let her get away with it, because the truth was he would have let her get away with just about anything in that moment short of actual bodily harm.

Probably even then, depending on how softly she did it.

When she finally took her hand away and let it trail down his jaw, his face changed before he could stop it.

The amusement stayed. But something deeper pulled in under it too.

Because she had heard him.

All those things he’d said, all the quiet ones, the steady ones, the ones she kept acting like were wildly irresponsible to put into the air—she’d heard them. He could feel it in the softness of her fingers at his neck. In the way she leaned down after. In the kind of kiss she gave him.

Not heat this time. Not one of the ones that lit him up and left him scrambling to stay respectful.

This one was something else.

It landed warm and small and devastating in a totally different way, and Cameron felt it all the way through him when her mouth touched his—like she was answering everything without making herself say one more vulnerable thing out loud. Like she was letting the kiss do the work for her. Like it was the closest she was willing to come, tonight, to laying her whole heart out in plain English.

He kissed her back just as softly.

No push. No pull. Just enough to meet her there and let her know he understood.

Then she melted right back down onto him, and Cameron’s arms came around her so naturally it felt less like a choice and more like something his body had known how to do long before his brain caught up.

There.

That was where she wanted to be.

It hit him in a way he didn’t have a good word for.

Not surprise, exactly. Though there was some of that. Not triumph either—God, no. Nothing in him felt smug enough for that.

It was something quieter. Something warmer. Something that made his whole chest feel full in a way that was almost hard to carry.

Because Lucy Corbett—Lucy, who noticed everything, who joked when she got too exposed, who had spent years building herself into someone self-contained and careful and hard to unsettle—had just settled on top of him like this was the easiest decision she’d made all day.

Like she trusted him to hold still. To stay warm. To stay here.

Cameron looked down at the top of her head for a long moment after she said she was going to sleep right there, and the smile that pulled at his mouth was slow, helpless, and all his.

As if there were any universe in which he was going to object.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice gone low and rough-soft with tiredness and affection. “That’s okay.”

A beat.

Then, because she’d made it very clear she had not actually been asking, his hand slid more securely over her back and he added, “I know.”

That got him closer to laughing again.

Not at her. Never that.

Just at the fact that she was half-asleep and still bossy enough to inform him of her sleeping arrangements like she was filing official paperwork.

He liked that maybe too much.

Her chest-is-comfortable comment did him in worse than all the rest of it should have.

He shut his eyes for half a second and let out the smallest breath through his nose, smiling into the dark like he needed a second to recover from how stupidly pleased that made him.

“Not being weird,” he whispered.

Which was, technically, a lie.

He was being weird internally. Very weird. He was one drowsy compliment away from floating clean off the bed and through the ceiling.

But outwardly, he managed it.

Mostly.

He kept his hand moving over her back in that same slow, even rhythm—one pass down, one pass up, over and over—like maybe if he stayed steady enough, she’d keep settling deeper. Like maybe he could help the last little edges of her consciousness loosen without either of them having to talk anymore.

And she did.

He felt it happen.

The way her body grew heavier in the smallest increments. The way the hand in his shirt stopped fidgeting and just stayed curled there. The way her breathing deepened against him, little by little, until it matched the lazy sweep of his hand and the steady beat under her ear.

Her tiny nuzzle into the center of his chest nearly knocked the breath out of him.

Not because it was overtly intimate. Because it was absentminded.

Because people only did things like that when they’d gone loose enough not to monitor themselves anymore. When comfort had moved in ahead of thought. When the body chose before the pride could intervene.

Cameron lay there very still after that.

Not stiff. Just careful.

Careful in the way a man was when he’d somehow ended up with something precious asleep on top of him and knew better than to risk it for a better angle or one inch more comfort.

He kept one arm around her waist beneath the blanket and the other moving gently over her back until he was pretty sure she’d drifted most of the way off. Then he eased the motion smaller, slower, not stopping completely.

Outside, Bedford Falls had gone all the way quiet. The house settled once somewhere in the walls. The lamp in the corner threw that same warm amber glow across the room, softening the edge of the dresser, the chair, the line of the curtains. Everything felt hushed and suspended and almost unreal.

But the weight of her over him was real. The warmth of her cheek against his chest was real. The little smile he’d caught at the edge of her mouth before she tucked herself in deeper was real.

And Cameron, staring up at the ceiling through the low light, had the disorienting, undeniable thought that this might be one of the happiest moments of his life.

Not the loudest. Not the easiest to explain. Not the kind anybody else would point to from the outside.

Just this.

Lucy half-asleep on him. Her room around them. No crowd. No spotlight. No performance required from either of them.

He thought about everything that had gotten them here—how long it had taken, how badly he’d screwed it up the first time, how impossible it would have sounded even a few weeks ago to imagine her not only letting him into her apartment but falling asleep draped over him like that—and something tight and grateful moved low in his chest.

He didn’t say any of it.

Didn’t think she needed to hear one more heavy thing before sleep took her all the way under.

Instead, Cameron dipped his head as much as he could without disturbing her and pressed one last soft kiss into her hair.

Then he settled back again and let the room go quiet around them.

After a while—long enough that her breathing had gone fully even, long enough that the fingers in his shirt had loosened just a little—he spoke once more, so quietly it was barely more than breath.

“Sleep, Luce.”

No answer came, of course.

Just her weight. Her warmth. That little trusting stillness.

Cameron smiled to himself in the dark, eyes slipping closed for a moment before he opened them again, because he wasn’t quite ready to sleep yet. Not with her here. Not with the need to memorize still stronger than the pull of exhaustion.

So he stayed awake a while longer, listening to her breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of her against him, and letting the simple fact of her being there settle deeper and deeper into him until it no longer felt like surprise at all.

Just right.

By the time sleep finally started pressing at the edges of him too, his arm around her had tightened almost imperceptibly, not enough to wake her, just enough to keep her anchored there where she’d chosen to land.

And if, sometime before he drifted off, the thought crossed his mind that he could get used to this in a way that was probably dangerous—

well.

That sounded like tomorrow’s problem.

Lucy was still for a second after he whispered it.

Sleep, Luce.

If she’d been any more awake, she probably would’ve made some dry little comment about how bossy he’d gotten for someone currently being used as a mattress.

But she wasn’t.

Not really.

She was hovering in that soft, blurry place between listening and drifting, where thoughts stopped arriving in full sentences and everything in the room had gone warm around the edges. The lamp glow. The blankets. The steady rise and fall under her cheek. His hand still moving, slower now, over her back.

Her body had already made the decision before the rest of her caught up.

Stay.
Here.
Don’t move.

Lucy let out the tiniest breath against his chest, more felt than heard, and tucked herself in a fraction closer without fully meaning to. Her knee stayed looped over his waist beneath the blanket, one arm still folded across his middle, her fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his shirt where they’d gone slack with sleep.

Her cheek shifted once, just enough to find a better spot over his heart.

That was the thing, maybe.

It was embarrassingly comfortable there.

Not in the way she’d joked about earlier.
Not in the way she would absolutely deny tomorrow if he got too pleased with himself.

Just… genuinely.

His chest was warm and broad and solid under her, his heartbeat low and steady where her ear rested, and somewhere in the sleepy, unguarded part of her brain that still told the truth before pride could get to it, Lucy registered the fact that she felt safe.

Not startled-safe.
Not temporary-safe.
Not holding-her-breath waiting for something to shift.

Just safe.

And because that was a bigger thought than she had the energy to fully unpack at one in the morning, her brain did what it always did when something got too tender—

it made it smaller.

More manageable.

So instead of saying any of that out loud, she just made the faintest little sleepy sound and burrowed in closer like his chest had personally offended her by being this effective.

If Cameron noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Which, frankly, was wise.

Lucy’s lashes fluttered once against her cheek before settling. Her breathing had already gone deeper, slower, her whole body heavier now in that loose, trusting way sleep brought with it when it wasn’t being fought.

The last few thoughts she had came in fragments.

The weird little spoon.

The stupid futon.

The fact that she was going to absolutely ruin his apartment in six to eight business weeks.

The fact that she’d meant it.

The fact that he’d said come over like he’d meant that too.

And somewhere underneath all of that—

quieter than the rest, but there—

the low, almost disbelieving little realization that this was real.

That she was here.
That he was here.
That tonight had happened.
That his arms were still around her.
That nobody was asking anything from her except to stay exactly where she already was.

Her fingers flexed once in his shirt, then loosened again.

The hand on his chest went still.

Her mouth softened against the cotton there, the faintest trace of a smile left behind from whatever half-formed dream or thought had passed through on its way out.

Then even that faded.

And Lucy finally gave in all the way.

Not dramatically.
Not all at once.

Just the slow surrender of someone who had spent years sleeping alone and had forgotten, until right now, how easy it was to let go when somebody else felt steady enough to fall asleep on.

Her breathing evened out.

Her body settled fully into his.

The tiny line between her brows disappeared.
Her shoulders loosened.
Her whole weight softened over him in one final little shift that said she was gone now, properly.

Asleep.

Still wrapped around him.
Still tucked into the center of his chest.
Still holding the edge of his shirt like some stubborn part of her had decided even unconsciousness didn’t mean she was letting go completely.

And if she moved at all after that, it was only in sleep—

a small sleepy nuzzle deeper into his chest,
a barely-there exhale against his skin,
the quietest little sigh of someone who had finally, finally stopped thinking long enough to rest.

Lucy Corbett, who had spent half the night trying not to make too much of anything, ended it exactly like this:

fast asleep on top of him,
curled into his warmth,
looking for all the world like she had found somewhere she didn’t need to brace herself in.

And for once—

without irony,
without defense,
without one last joke to soften it—

she let that be enough.

The evening still clung to Lucy in bright, noisy fragments.

The crack of aluminum bats. Boys shouting over one another from the dugout. Parents unfolding lawn chairs along the first-base line. Cameron’s voice carrying across the field—steady, firm, impossible to ignore. By the final inning, the whole team had moved with a confidence that would have seemed laughably out of reach six weeks earlier.

Now the noise had fallen away behind them, replaced by the familiar creak of the wooden steps leading to her apartment.

Lucy climbed one step ahead of him, her keys looped around her finger, the soft thud of his boots sounding just behind her. She could still see him on the diamond in his faded Braves cap and navy coaching pullover, dirt at one knee, smiling in that easy, unguarded way he always did when one of the boys finally executed something they’d practiced a hundred times.

The image had lodged itself in her chest and stayed there.

She glanced back over her shoulder, smiling.

“You really turned them around.”

Her voice carried the same quiet amazement she had felt all afternoon.

The porch light above her door cast a warm circle over his face as he followed her upward, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, broad and relaxed in the kind of way that made him look completely at home wherever he happened to be.

Lucy slid the key into the lock.

“I mean it,” she said, pushing the door open and stepping aside so he could come in with her. “The first practice in April looked like a public safety concern.”

A soft laugh escaped her as she kicked off her boots by the moon painted beside the door.

“They couldn’t hit, they couldn’t field, and I’m pretty sure two of them cried when you made them run bases.”

She looked up at him, warmth spreading through her chest all over again.

“And tonight they looked like an actual team.”

The truth of it settled between them as naturally as his duffel bag landing beside the chair by the window and his keys joining hers in the ceramic bowl on the entry table.

That was the part that still startled her.

How quickly his presence had stopped feeling like something extraordinary and started feeling like something anticipated.

Expected.

Wanted.

Lucy crossed into the kitchen before her thoughts could follow that too far.

“If you sit down, I’ll make us coffee.”

She was already reaching for the kettle.

The apartment shifted into its familiar evening rhythm around them. Cabinet doors opening. Water running into the coffee maker. The low hum of the oven as she slid in the pan of cinnamon rolls she had baked that afternoon, their spiraled tops already glazed and waiting to be warmed.

Baking was one of the few things she did almost entirely for herself.

Quietly.

Without advertising it.

There was something satisfying about butter and flour and cinnamon becoming something tangible under her hands, something generous and comforting and uncomplicated.

Tonight, though, she had made them knowing he was coming over after the game.

That realization sent a small flutter through her stomach.

She busied herself with mugs and sugar, trying not to examine what it meant that she had started planning for his arrival hours before he ever knocked on her door.

Because that was where the fear lived.

Not in anything he had done.

Cameron had been kind from the moment he came back to Bedford Falls. Thoughtful. Consistent. Patient in ways that still caught her off guard.

The uncertainty came from older places.

From a seventeen-year-old girl who had once trusted him completely and discovered that wanting someone did not guarantee they would know how to handle being wanted back.

That memory still existed inside her, quieter now but not erased.

And the more she cared about him—really cared about him, in a way that felt deeper and steadier than what she had felt as a teenager—the more that old ache occasionally stirred and asked whether history was patient enough to repeat itself.

Lucy set two mugs on the counter and exhaled slowly.

She was trying not to let that voice run the show.

Trying not to sabotage something just because it felt too good.

Trying, for once, to stay.

The oven timer chimed softly.

She opened the door, and the scent of warm cinnamon, brown sugar, and butter immediately filled the apartment.

“Okay,” she called, smiling despite herself as she transferred the buns to a plate. “Coach gets fed.”

The coffee began to drip in slow, fragrant spurts.

Lucy crossed to the sideboard near the dining nook and lifted the lid from her cream-colored ceramic cookie jar, painted with tiny blue wildflowers around the rim.

Inside, nestled in parchment paper, were browned-butter pistachio and dark chocolate chunk cookies.

They were one of her favorites—nutty, rich, slightly salty, with crisp edges and soft centers.

Not flashy.

Just quietly incredible.

She arranged several on a small plate and carried them into the living room.

Cameron looked exactly as he always did in her apartment: too natural, too comfortable, too easy to imagine there permanently.

The sight tightened something deep in her chest.

Lucy set the plate down in front of him, curling one leg beneath herself as she settled onto the couch nearby.

A shy smile touched her mouth.

“Try one.”

She nudged the plate a little closer.

“Browned-butter pistachio with dark chocolate.”

Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sweater as she watched him, suddenly and inexplicably nervous.

“They’re kind of ridiculous.”

The smile that followed was softer, more vulnerable than she intended.

“But they’re really good.”

Cameron had spent most of the evening on a baseball field trying not to look over at Lucy too much.

He had failed.

Not in a way anyone else would’ve clocked, probably. He had still coached. Still shouted reminders across the infield, still crouched beside the dugout fence with one hand braced on his knee while he talked a nervous eleven-year-old through staying loose before an at-bat. Still clapped one of the boys on the shoulder when he finally stopped bailing out of the batter’s box and drove a grounder clean between second and short.

But every so often, his attention had found her anyway.

Lucy on the bleachers. Lucy in the late sun. Lucy smiling when one of the boys sprinted home like he’d just won the World Series instead of a Wednesday-night rec league game.

And now she was in her apartment, barefoot by the couch, setting cookies in front of him like feeding him after a game was just something that belonged inside the shape of their life.

That hit him harder than the win.

The apartment smelled like cinnamon and coffee and warm sugar, layered over the familiar notes he had started associating with this place—old wood, clean laundry, something faintly floral from one of her candles, the soft paper-and-vinyl smell of records stacked nearby. His duffel sat by the chair without feeling like an intrusion. His keys were in the bowl beside hers. The hooks by the door held her bag and jacket exactly where they were supposed to, like they had always been there.

He had done that.

Small thing.

Still, every time he walked in and saw them, something quiet and possessive—not of her, never of her, but of the care he was allowed to give—settled through him.

Then she looked nervous over a cookie.

That nearly ruined him.

Cameron leaned forward from where he sat on the couch, elbows resting loosely on his knees, and picked one up from the plate. It was still faintly warm, the edges dark and crisp-looking, chocolate glossy in little broken pockets where it had softened. He could smell the browned butter before he even took a bite—nutty and rich, folded through with pistachio and dark chocolate.

He glanced up at her before eating it, catching the way her fingers toyed with the hem of her sweater. The small, almost shy curve of her mouth. The vulnerability she had not quite meant to show.

She had made these for him.

Maybe not in so many words. Maybe she would argue that she baked because she wanted to and he happened to be here. But Cameron knew better than to take the easy explanation when the truer one was sitting right there in front of him, warm on a plate.

His voice came quieter than he expected.

“You baked.”

Not a question.

A realization.

A soft little piece of the evening clicking into place.

He looked from the cookie to her face again, and something in his chest tightened in a good, dangerous way.

“For me?”

The words slipped out before he could dress them up into something smoother. The second they were there, he almost wanted to take them back—not because he didn’t mean them, but because they revealed too much. Too quickly. That he understood what it meant. That he cared. That he was already holding this small offering like it mattered.

But Lucy was watching him with those careful eyes, and Cameron was getting a little tired of pretending not to be undone by ordinary tenderness.

So he let it stay.

Then he took a bite.

And immediately closed his eyes.

“Jesus,” he muttered, around the first breath after swallowing.

He opened his eyes again and looked at the cookie like it had betrayed him personally.

“No. Hold on.”

He sat back, staring at it with full seriousness now, because the texture was ridiculous. Crisp edge, soft center, the browned butter deep enough to make the whole thing taste warmer than it should have. Pistachio tucked under the dark chocolate, just salty enough to keep it from being too sweet.

He looked back at her, brows raised.

“Luce.”

A beat.

“This is not ‘kind of ridiculous.’ This is a public safety issue.”

The line came out with enough gravity that it should have sounded absurd, but he meant at least half of it. Maybe more. His second bite was slower because now he wanted to actually taste it instead of being ambushed by it.

He chewed, shook his head faintly, and pointed at the cookie with what remained of it.

“You just keep information like this to yourself?”

His mouth curved, but his voice softened beneath the tease.

“You’ve been walking around this town owning Honey Bee, taking pictures, judging my furniture, and apparently making cookies like this in secret?”

He leaned back against the couch, one arm draped along the cushion, the cookie still in his other hand.

“That feels dishonest.”

It didn’t.

It felt intimate.

That was the problem.

Not the cookies themselves, though God knew they were good enough to make a man say something dramatic in a living room. It was the quietness of it. The fact that she had this whole private skill, this soft domestic ritual she did without needing applause, and tonight she had let him sit inside it.

Cinnamon rolls warming in the oven.

Coffee brewing.

Cookies from a ceramic jar.

Coach gets fed.

The words replayed in his head, and his throat tightened before he could stop it.

He glanced toward the kitchen, where the coffee maker still gave off low, fragrant little sounds, then back at her. She was curled onto the couch nearby, one leg tucked beneath her, watching him with that almost shy hope she probably hated knowing he could see.

Cameron’s chest pulled.

The game came back to him in fragments then—dust on the base path, the boys spilling out of the dugout, one kid nearly tripping over first because he was too busy grinning at his own hit. Lucy’s voice somewhere in the stands, not loud, not making a show of it, but there.

Present.

For him.

For the boys, maybe.

But for him too.

He lowered the cookie slightly.

“You being there tonight…” He paused, because the sentence had come out before he had decided how exposed he wanted to be. Then he kept going anyway. “That meant a lot.”

His thumb brushed absently over a crumb on his fingertip.

“I know it’s just a kids’ game. I know it’s not exactly high stakes.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“Even if Tyler Mason’s dad does act like the county championship is personally sponsored by ESPN.”

The joke eased the pressure a little, but not enough to hide the truth.

Cameron’s eyes returned to hers.

“But I liked looking up and seeing you there.”

That one landed softer.

He let it.

“I liked knowing you came.”

He had been careful all evening not to make too much of it. Hadn’t wanted to look like a man who needed his girlfriend in the stands to remember how to function. But he had felt it. Every time he glanced over and caught her watching, smiling, paying attention not because she had to but because she wanted to understand another piece of his life.

The same way she had in Bennett’s.

The same way she did now, feeding him something she had made with her own hands.

He took another bite of the cookie because it was easier than saying all of that too quickly.

Bad idea.

The cookie did not make him less emotional.

It made him worse.

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh and looked down at it again.

“This is unfairly good,” he said. “Like, I’m trying to have a meaningful thought here and this cookie is actively interfering.”

He finished it, then reached for another almost immediately, paused halfway, and looked at her.

“Am I allowed to have two, or is there some kind of bakery etiquette I’m about to violate?”

His brows lifted.

“Because I need you to know I’m willing to behave, but I’m not happy about it.”

He waited only a second before taking the second one, because honestly, she should have known better than to put the plate within reach. The smile he gave her after was unrepentant.

Then the cinnamon rolls in the kitchen sent another wave of warmth through the apartment, butter and sugar curling into the room, and Cameron leaned his head back against the couch for a second with a low, helpless groan.

“Okay. This is a setup.”

He looked at her again.

“You watched me coach for two hours, brought me home, gave me coffee, cookies, and cinnamon rolls?” His mouth tipped slowly. “What exactly are you trying to do to me?”

The flirt was there, warm and easy, but beneath it sat something quieter.

Because he knew what she was doing.

Not intentionally, maybe. Not strategically.

She was taking care of him.

In her way.

Not loud. Not showy. Not the kind of care that asked to be recognized so it could count.

She had noticed he would be tired after the game. Hungry, probably. Happy, but still running on dust and adrenaline and the leftover tension of trying to get eleven boys to remember which base came next.

So she had made something.

And let him come home to it.

Cameron swallowed around that thought, his gaze dropping briefly to the coffee table because looking directly at her while feeling that much might be a little beyond him for one second.

When he looked back up, his expression had shifted.

Still warm. Still a little amused.

But more open now.

“You’re really good at this,” he said quietly.

A beat.

“Making a place feel like somewhere a person wants to stay.”

He had meant the apartment. The food. The soft lamplight. The way she settled herself into spaces and made them honest.

But he realized a second later that he also meant her.

Lucy herself felt like that lately.

Somewhere he wanted to stay.

The thought moved through him before he could decide whether to let it show, and maybe some of it did, because his voice came softer when he added, “I don’t think you know how good you are at it.”

He set the half-eaten second cookie down carefully on a napkin like it deserved respect.

Then he reached toward her—not grabbing, not pulling. Just extending a hand across the cushion between them, palm open.

An invitation.

“Come here a second.”

His voice had dropped into something lower, gentler.

Not because he was trying to shift the mood too fast.

Because he wanted her closer. Because she was sitting there looking a little too nervous over cookies he wanted to write poetry about and cinnamon rolls he hadn’t even eaten yet, and because she had spent the evening seeing him in one of his worlds and then brought him back into hers with so much quiet care it made him ache.

When she moved closer, Cameron let his hand settle at her waist, careful and warm, and drew her just enough that their knees touched first. Then her hip. Then the line of her side against his as he tucked her into the space beside him.

The couch dipped around them.

The room felt smaller immediately.

Better.

He looked down at her, one hand still at her waist, the other reaching up to brush a stray bit of hair back from her cheek. His thumb lingered near her jaw for half a second before falling away.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said softly.

A tiny pause.

“I’m already impressed.”

His mouth curved.

“Alarmingly impressed.”

Then his gaze flicked toward the plate again.

“Honestly, intimidated.”

The tease came back, but gentler now, because he had seen the vulnerability underneath her offering and wanted to hold it carefully, not turn it into a joke too quickly.

He leaned in and kissed her temple.

Not her mouth.

Not yet.

Just a soft, lingering press there, because the gratitude in him felt too tender for anything sharper.

“Thank you,” he murmured against her hair.

For the cookies.

For the game.

For making room.

For wanting him here after.

He pulled back enough to look at her, his smile quiet and full.

“Also, just so we’re clear,” he added, “if these cinnamon rolls are as good as that cookie, I’m gonna need a minute.”

A beat.

“Possibly medical attention.”

His fingers tightened lightly at her side.

“But I’m very brave. I’ll try one.”