Page 88 of Second Sin

I slide onto the stool as he moves past, his hand trailing along my side. The heat of it lingers. Without asking, he pours my coffee—black, the way I like it—and slides it over.

We eat side by side. Knees brushing with every small shift. His thigh pressed solid and warm against mine, like an anchor I didn’t ask for but can’t seem to pull away from.

His palm rests on my leg—broad, casual, like it belongs there. His thumb moves once, a lazy stroke just above my knee, and my breath hitches before I can stop it.

Every inch of me is aware of that touch. Of him.

My body responds in a way it never has with anyone else—like it recognizes something I haven’t caught up to yet. Like it’s already his.

And for a flicker of a second, it feels like a betrayal.

Because Ethan and I had something steady. Easy, quiet, real. But it was never this. Never heat curling under my skin or want that bordered on hunger.

And maybe it’s not fair.

To compare.To take what I had with Ethan—years of trust and rhythm and gentle love—and hold it up against this wild, consuming thing I don’t even have words for yet.

A hand lifts to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering.

“You’ve got that face again,” he murmurs.

“What face?”

“The one that says you’re thinking too much.”

The truth presses up hard against my ribs—sharp, insistent.

“It’s just been a long time since anything felt this good. That’s all.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me—really looks at me. Like whatever he was about to say might ruin everything if he says it out loud. His jaw tightens. His throat works like he’s trying to swallow it down.

Then his fingers squeeze gently on my thigh. Not possessive. Just...grounding.

A quiet nod.

He glances at the clock on the stove. “Shit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve got to leave in twenty. Flight to Winnipeg.”

“Right. Forgot you’ve got an away game.”

He shifts, turning just enough to face me. One hand lifts, sliding to the back of my head, fingers weaving through my hair with a kind of deliberate care that makes my pulse stutter.

Our mouths meet in a kiss that’s deep and unhurried. He moves against me with quiet intensity, like he’s not trying to convince me of anything. Just be with me. Just feel.

My hands drift to his stomach. Muscle tightens under my touch, his breath catching slightly between us. He leans in closer, deepening the kiss—not rushed, not desperate. Focused.

His forehead rests against mine when we part, both of us still breathing a little too fast. His thumb strokes the base of my neck, slow and steady.

A long beat stretches between us. His thumb keeps moving, like he’s keeping himself tethered. His jaw’s tight. Eyes on mine like he wants to say something—but doesn’t.

“Need to get ready,” he says on a sigh, then presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’ll drive you home on the way to the airport.”

He disappears down the hall, and I slide off the stool, rinse our plates, and load them into the dishwasher.

In the bedroom, the shower’s already running. Water hits tile in a steady rhythm, steam curling from beneath the bathroom door.

A smile tugs at my lips when I see my clothes folded at the foot of the bed. Pants, shirt, socks—stacked in a loose pile. He must’ve picked them up while I was in the kitchen.

I dress quickly. There’s a faint stain on the sleeve, orangey-red, and I brush at it with my fingers.

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