Page 57 of Surrender
Gwen stirred slowly, eyes fluttering open to the sound of something faintly sizzling.
For a brief, disoriented moment, she wasn’t sure where she was. Then she heard birdsong outside the window.
Memories came rushing back—rain, the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d said I love you, the way they’d come together like the world might end if they didn’t. Her body ached in all the best ways.
She stretched, slowly, her muscles deliciously sore, and smiled as she caught the scent of coffee.
Slipping out of bed, she grabbed one of Keefe’s shirts from the drawer —one of those soft, worn ones that hung loose on her frame—and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
He stood at the stove, bare-chested, boxers riding low on his hips and his dark hair rumpled. A mug of coffee steamed beside him and he was flipping something in a pan.
Gwen stepped behind him, wrapped her arms around his middle, and rested her cheek against his back. “Good morning.” She took his mug, let the heat seep into her fingers. “This smells amazing.” She took a sip and groaned. “I missed your coffee.”
He smiled over his shoulder. “Is that all?”
She exhaled and sighed. “I missed everything about you. About us.”
“Me too.”
“Keefe, is this really happening?” she murmured. “Because it feels... surreal.”
He turned in her arms, pulling her close. “It’s real. You’re here. I’m here. And I’m not letting you go.”
“You said that last night.”
“I meant it.”
She looked up at him, eyes soft. “So, what happens now?”
Keefe gently smiled as he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.
“Now,” he said, “we eat eggs. Then we figure out the rest.”
Gwen fetched plates and silverware, setting the table with a quiet sense of purpose. It was her favorite spot in the house—that little table beside the picture window. She loved the way the light spilled through the glass and how she could see the garden while sipping her coffee.
Being here with Keefe felt so right. This was exactly where she was meant to be.
Still, a weight pressed on her chest—soft but insistent. Things were better between them, yes, but not everything was fixed.
Since they were both starving, she waited until he’d set the table with the breakfast he’d made—eggs perfectly fried, sausages still sizzling, thick potatoes crisped just right, and toast slathered in butter. The scent filled the kitchen, warm and comforting.
They ate in quiet contentment, stealing glances between bites, their knees brushing beneath the table. It wasn’t just the food—it was the way he’d thought to make it for her, the small act of care that made her heart ache. Only after they’d cleared their plates and he poured another cup of coffee did she lean back, full and warm, her gaze lingering on him with something softer than hunger.
“Keefe, why did you let me in last night?” she asked.
He exhaled, shaking his head. “Because you tried to tell me. Didn’t you? You kept saying we needed to talk, and something always got in the way.”
“Yes, I did,” she said softly.
“And to be honest… I avoided hearing whatever it was you wanted to say. I was afraid.”
She blinked at him. “Afraid of what?”
“I thought maybe I was wrong,” he admitted. “That maybe we didn’t have this connection. That you were about to end it. I didn’t want to hear that. So, I let the interruptions happen. I wanted to convince you that what we had was real.” He reached for her hand and held it in his.
“Do you believe that now?”
“I believe you feel this as much as I do. And I know the only lie you really told me was your name.”
