Page 159 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
She moves my mug two inches to the right. I expect the displacement to trigger every instinct to restore order. But warmth spreads through my chest.
"That's not where it goes."
"It does now." Her shoulders lift in a casual shrug as she reaches for another mug. "This way makes more sense with how you move when you make coffee. I've been watching your patterns."
Pink streaks catch the light as her hair escapes its messy bun. My t-shirt drowns her small frame, and her bare feet tap rhythms against hardwood that only she can hear.
She's rewriting my space. Making it ours.
"You're moving in."
Her body freezes mid-reach, coffee mug suspended in air. For once, she goes still, her mind processing. I count her heartbeat at her throat. One. Two. Three.
Her eyes widen when she turns to face me, shifting from shock to something more cautious. Hope. Her fingers tighten around ceramic, knuckles whitening.
She sets the mug down with care. "You want me to move in? Here? With you?"
"Are you sure?" Her fingers resume their familiar dance against her thigh. "I'm chaos, Frost. You know this. I name my electronics. I leave dishes in the sink. I rearrange furniture at 3 AM when I can't sleep."
Each word tumbles faster than the last, hands fluttering between gestures.
"My brain doesn't have an off switch. I was driving you—"
I cross to her in two strides, boots silent against hardwood. The kitchen island behind her, cluttered with her rainbow laptop beside my disassembled Glock. The combination should disturb me.
It makes perfect sense.
My hands find her face. Thumbs against cheekbones, fingers curved along her jaw. Her skin radiates heat against my palms.
"Life without you is inferior to life with you, regardless of the disorder."
Her eyes search mine for uncertainty. There is none to find.
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me." A smile breaks across her face like sunrise.
"It's fact."
"Nothing about this is simple." Her body relaxes into my touch.
I lean forward, closing distance between us, kissing her. Her body softens, breathing changes rhythm, fingers stop their dance.
These seconds when she stills under my influence, when my rigid order bends to accommodate her warmth.
My hands slide to her waist, lifting her onto the kitchen island in one motion. She gasps against my mouth, legs wrapping around my hips.
"I want you here." My voice drops lower, rougher. "Your Star Wars figures. Your pink hair dye staining my sink. All of you in my space."
Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging just enough to make my scalp tingle. The sensation burns down my back, waking parts of me that have stayed dormant.
"Even when I reorganize your sock drawer by color instead of fabric weight?" Her eyes spark with mischief, testing boundaries even as her body melts against mine.
"I'll adapt."
When did I become someone who adapts?
The words surprise us both. But looking at her, seeing how she transforms sterile space into something that feels like home, the answer becomes simple.
Her smile shifts, becoming hungrier. Her hands move to my chest, fingers spread across fabric. Heat burns through cotton.
