Page 75 of Texts From My Exes
Ha ha.
Yes.
No.
…Shit.
Because Ezra wasgoodin bed. Like, unfairly good.
And so not gentle but in the best, most intoxicating way. And hot.
And why did his hair have to look so nice in the morning?
Where the hell did he even find a six-pack? Cycling? A machine? An app? Should I ask?
“Stop staring at me,” he groaned, dragging the pillow over his face. “It’s like you’re scanning me for upload to a 3-D printer. Not your finest moment, Harper. They don’t make them in machines like this.”
“Bummer,” I muttered. “What I wouldn’t do to try two of you at once.”
His hand slid down his face. “Excuse me?”
“My brain went into some really…kinked-up places.” I waved a hand. “How do we feel about bionic hands and, uh, other body parts? Is that a no? Or more of a let’s-see-where-technology-takes-us-and-volunteer-for-the-future vibe?”
He blinked at me. “You’re delirious.”
“I might be sexed out. Maxed out. Tired. Delirious,” I admitted.
I made a face, suddenly serious. “But would the bionic hand be…cold? Because I don’t think I could do cold.”
He scoffed, rolling onto his side to face me. “Naturally it would heat up. Amateurs.”
I flopped onto my back and threw an arm over my eyes. “You are so cocky.”
“Accurate.” He said it like a diagnosis, then went quiet. Too quiet.
I felt him shift beside me, muscles tightening with a thought he didn’t want to have. His breathing changed—shallower, counting. Ezra only counted when he was about to spiral.
“Don’t,” I murmured, poking his side. “No math in bed.”
He was quiet for a moment, and I closed my eyes, listening to his breathing, feeling just, all the things. After a few minutes, I felt the bed move as he slipped away from the bed and padded into the kitchen.
Figures. The man could wrestle me unconscious with one kiss but needed to phone a friend to handle feelings.
I rolled onto my stomach, cheek smooshed into the pillow, listening to the low rumble of his voice. Muffled. Hesitant. Then—louder.
“…don’t start,” Ezra hissed.
A beat. A laugh I recognized from the one family dinner I had at his brother’s house.
“Because she’s asleep,” Ezra said through his teeth. “And no, I’m not whispering because I’m guilty—I’m whispering because her neighbors are nosy and I don’t need an HOA meeting about my love life.”
Silence. Then: “Yes,lovelife. I said it. You happy?”
I shoved the pillow off my face and grinned into the sheets, warmth spreading in my chest like sunlight.
The kitchen chair scraped against the floor softly, and I could imagine him fidgeting. “I crossed the line. We crossed the line. There is no line. Lines are dead. And I don’t—no, I’m not asking for advice.” A groan. “Fine. I’m asking for advice.”
A faint, delighted squeal—his sister-in-law, probably, because I could practically hear her clapping.
