Page 23 of Owned In Misty Mountain

That should embarrass me.

It doesn’t.

It makes me ache all over again.

He leaves me alone, and I sink into the water, breath catching at the heat.

My body is his now.

Every inch, marked.

And I don’t know what that means.

But I don’t hate it.

—-

By the time I’m dry and dressed in one of his flannels, the kitchen smells like breakfast.

Real breakfast.

He’s at the stove standing in front of a spread of eggs, bacon, and biscuits.

A little bowl of jam on the side.

“You didn’t have to—” I start.

He shrugs. “I know.”

We eat in silence, too hungry and too full of thoughts to say much.

But halfway through my coffee, Mike reaches across the table and brushes his thumb over my cheek.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Just…”

“Processing.”

“Yeah.”

His hand lingers.

Warm. Steady.

And I think—maybe this is it. Maybe we’re okay. Maybe this messy, chaotic, delicious thing between us is real.

Then he says, “we’ll stop by your place after breakfast.”

I blink. “Why?”

“So you can grab your things.”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“You’re staying here now.”

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