Page 27 of My Masked Savior
She stirs, eyes fluttering open. Confusion crosses her face first, then awareness of where she is—whose bed she’s in. I watch the memories flood back, see the flush creepup her neck.
“I made breakfast.” I gesture to the plate. “Nothing fancy, but you need to eat.”
Morgan pushes herself up, clutching the sheet to her chest like that’ll somehow preserve modesty after everything we did last night. Her hair’s a mess, lipstick long gone, and she’s never looked more beautiful.
“I don’t usually do this,” Morgan says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for the orange juice.
“Eat breakfast?”
“Wake up in a stranger’s bed.” She takes a sip, eyes fixed on the glass instead of me. “I don’t even know your last name.”
“Hale. Damien Hale.” I lean back against the headboard, watching her pick at the eggs. “And we’re not strangers anymore, princess.”
Her cheeks darken at the nickname. She takes a small bite of bacon, chewing slowly like she’s buying time to figure out what to say next.
"Do you like being an EMT? Is it what you expected after leaving the Navy?"
The question catches me off guard. Most people don’t ask—they just assume it’s about helping people, playing hero. Morgan’s eyes search my face, genuinely curious.
“Most days, yeah. The adrenaline rush is similar, just with better hours." I shrug, keeping my tone casual. "It's good knowing I'm still helping people, but I get to sleep in my own bed every night.”
“So you still save lives, just without the deployment stress.”
“Something like that.” I reach over, tucking another strand of hair behind her ear. “What about you? Always wanted to sell insurance?”
She laughs, the sound unexpected and bright. It transforms her whole face.
“God, no. I wanted to be an artist when I was a kid. Painter, maybe a sculptor.” Morgan sets down her fork, pulling her knees up to her chest. “But art doesn’t pay bills. Insurance is... predictable. Safe.”
“Safe is boring.”
“Safe is what I need.” The words come out sharper than she probably intended. She winces, takes another sip of juice. “I mean?—”
“You don’t have to explain.” I run my thumb along her jaw, tilting her face toward mine. “But you don’t have to be safe with me either.”
Her breath catches. We just look at each other, and I can see the war playing out behind those dark eyes—fear battling with want, old wounds fighting against new possibilities.
“I live two states away from my family for a reason,” she finally says. “I rebuilt my entire life to get away from—” She stops herself. “This is too heavy for morning-after conversation.”
“Maybe I want heavy.”
Morgan shakes her head, pulling back. “This is ridiculous. I don’t even know you. We’ve met three times, and suddenly I’m spilling my entire life story?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She runs a hand through her hair, frustration bleeding into her voice. “Why are you so easy to talk to? It makes no sense.”
I pick up a piece of bacon from the plate, offering it to her. “Maybe you’re tired of keeping everything locked up.”
“Or maybe you’re just...” She trails off, taking the bacon from my fingers. “I don’t knowwhat you are.”
“Charming?”
“Persistent.” Her lips quirk up at the corner. “And apparently a terrible cook. This bacon is burned.”
“You’re eating it anyway.”
“Because I’m starving.” She takes another bite, then points at me with the remaining piece. “And you’re deflecting. I asked about you, and somehow we ended up talking about me instead.”
