Page 91 of Sinful
When's the last time that happened?
The door opens and I tense automatically—old instincts—but it's just Bravos.
He's wearing jeans and nothing else, holding two paper coffee cups like they're precious cargo.
"You're awake," he says. "Good. I wasn't sure how much longer I could wait before drinking both of these myself."
"You got coffee."
"Figured you'd need it." He sits on the edge of the bed, hands me one of the cups. Then he starts pulling things out of his pockets—tiny creamers, sugar packets, a handful of those little wooden stirrers. "I'm not sure how you take it."
The gesture is so unexpectedly sweet it makes my chest tight.
"Black is fine," I say, watching him arrange the condiments on the nightstand like he's setting up a shrine. "But thank you. For thinking about it."
"Yeah, well." He shrugs, but there's something soft in his expression. "Seemed like the thing to do."
He takes his own coffee—black, like mine—and settles back against the headboard beside me.
We sit there drinking in silence, the kind that only comes after really good sex and really honest conversation.
I study him in the daylight.
The scars on his knuckles.
The tattoo on his ribs—Shotgun Saints patch, but also something else underneath.
Names, maybe? His sisters?
"What are we doing here?" I ask finally.
He raises an eyebrow. "Drinking coffee?"
"No, I mean—this. You. Me." I gesture between us. "You're treating me like I'm your ol' lady."
The words hang there.
He takes a slow sip of coffee, considering. "You could be."
My heart stutters. Stops. Starts again too fast.
"Nomads don't have ol' ladies," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "They have women in different cities."
"Maybe I'm tired of being that kind of Nomad."
The weight of that statement settles between us.
"What does that mean?" I ask quietly.
"It means—" He sets his coffee down, turns to face me fully. "It means I've spent eighteen years keeping everyone at arm's length. Never staying. Never letting anyone matter. And it worked. Until you."
"Bravos—"
"I'm not saying I have all the answers. I don't know what this looks like long-term. But I know I don't want to walk away from you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
I can't breathe. Can't think.
"I'm in the Austin area," I hear myself say. "You're in Sharp. That's forty-five minutes."
