Page 66 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

I do. Hard.

She stays on top of me, wrapped around me, kissing my jaw, my lips, my chest.

And I realize, she didn’t just take control. She owned me.

And I fucking loved it.

We’re tangled up, sheets a mess, sweat drying on our skin, and still neither of us is willing to move. She’s curled against me, her leg hooked over mine, claiming territory.

My arm’s around her waist. My other hand’s in her hair, stroking slow. I feel her breath even out. Not asleep, but getting there. I should let her drift. But something’s pressing behind my ribs. Heavy. True. It burns a hole in me not to say it. So I do. Quietly. Truthfully. “I didn’t know I could be this happy.”

She shifts just enough to look up at me. Eyes glassy with sleep. Or maybe something else.

I run my knuckles along her cheekbone. “Didn’t think it was for me. That kind of softness. That kind of… peace.”

She doesn’t speak. Just brushes her fingers along my chest, over my heart.

“You make me feel like I’ve got a home,” I whisper. “Like I’m not just some sharp-edged thing trying not to cut the world.”

Her eyes close again, lashes brushing her cheeks. “You are my home,” she says.

I’m undone again. Not with lust this time. Not with hunger. With something much bigger. I hold her tighter, bury my face in her hair, and let the quiet take us.

She falls asleep first.

For the first time I can remember, I don’t stay awake listening for danger.

I stay awake listening to her breathe. Listening to peace.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Blake

I get to the café ten minutes early. Because I’m either polite, desperate, or trying to emotionally speedrun a relationship crisis before the pastries run out. The line between those is thinner than the croissant crust I’m stress-peeling apart.

The server hands me a pastry I don’t remember ordering. I thank her like I just won a raffle and sit at the far corner table, back to the wall, full view of the door. You know. Just in case I need to make a quick exit. Or throw myself dramatically through the window.

I tear a corner off the croissant and stare at it like it’s gonna tell me whether I’m boyfriend material or just a snack with abandonment issues. It does not. It’s just flaky and full of butter and anxiety.

Jennifer loves this place. Said the espresso here could resurrect a corpse if it had a croissant to chase it with. Then she licked sugar off her thumb and I blacked out for ten seconds. Not relevant. Except it is.

Why did I agree to meet the cop and the mortician who are both auditioning to redecorate my girlfriend’s insides like horny interior designers with trauma?

Edgar probably already did. Last night. In a graveyard. Wearing gloves. Possibly reciting a eulogy. Definitely making it art.

He’s got that whole death daddy thing going. Refined. Broody. Smells like cedar and sin. I’d fuck him, too, if I was into that, and wasn’t busy panic-hating him.

I shift in my seat and take a bite. It tastes like panic. Or maybe that’s just the cinnamon. Could be both.

This feels like an ambush. Or a polyamorous exorcism. Or a gentle yet coordinated dick-down where I’m the weak link in the gangbang. Am I dying? Is this how I die? Emotional shanking over espresso and sexual jealousy? I’m not even mad.

Jennifer didn’t tell me to come. Carson did. He texted me like it was a casual thing: “Meet us at the café on 8th. 1pm. Bring your thoughts.”

What the hell does that mean? What thoughts? Which ones? I only have like three about this whole thing, and one of them is just “I love Jennifer.”

I nibble more pastry. It’s getting deconstructed like a crime scene. Flaky crumbs all over my jeans. Jennifer would probably mock me for it. Or lick them off. God.

I press the heel of my palm to my forehead. Does she love us all? Is she using us as body disposal units with benefits? Am I just the dumb one she lets carry things and climb ladders?

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