Page 59 of Theirs to Hunt
“I’m going to shower,” he says, voice rough.
“You good down here?”
I nod once.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just heads upstairs, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt as he goes. Calm. Controlled. Always calculated. But I see the way his hand lingers on the banister. The weight in his shoulders.
He stayed up all night watching her. That means something. He didn’t leave her side. Didn’t sleep.
When I’m not with her, I know she’s protected. By someone who loves her as much as I do.
Reagan freezes mid-step when she sees him go, a stack of plates in her hands.
Her eyes track him, lips parted, breath soft.
As the shirt slips from his shoulders and he disappears up the stairs, she lets out the quietest sigh.
I smile to myself and gently clear my throat.
She startles, the plates wobbling. I step in to help, brushing her fingers as I take the forks from her hand.
“You cook and clean?” she asks, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.
I let her shift the topic off ogling Grayson.
“Only when I like who I cooked for.” I give her a half-smirk. The truth would land wrong otherwise.
We fall into a rhythm.
Quiet. Easy.
I rinse. She loads the dishwasher.
She hums once under her breath, stops, then starts again.
Like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to be this comfortable here.
“You always this domestic?” she asks, trying to keep it light.
But there’s something in her voice. A scratch.
Like she doesn’t know what to do with this kind of softness.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I want to be.”
Her hands pause on the last plate. She looks at me. Really looks.
And I feel that stare hit somewhere deep in my chest.
“For me?”
I nod.
“For you. For us.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then closes the dishwasher and leans back against the counter.
“You don’t even know me.”
