Page 58 of Chasing Kit

“Thanks,” I managed.

He gave my wrist one last squeeze, then let go and stacked our bowls. He washed up in the sink, his arms flexing as he scrubbed the dishes. I watched him work, then cleared my throat.

“I, uh. Can I stay here tonight?” My voice sounded tiny. “I don’t want to go back to the cottage.”

He froze, hands dripping, and looked at me. I thought he was going to say no, he had things to do. Or that I should probably not make this a habit. Finally, he spoke. “Yeah, of course. You can stay.”

The tension in my chest broke and tears prickled my eyes. I wanted to kiss him and hug him and never let him go.

“I’ll make the bed with clean sheets,” he said.

“You really don’t have to⁠—”

He looked at me and this time his smile was sad but real. “I want to because you deserve the best I can give you.”

So, I watched him head upstairs, feet heavy on the old wooden steps, and I realized I’d never felt so much at home in someone else’s house. Or maybe anywhere.

I took a breath and followed him upstairs into the bedroom.

War’s bed was almost too big for the space. The mattress was king-sized and pillowy, and took up most of the floor, leaving just enough room for a narrow dresser, one nightstand, and a battered old trunk at the foot. There were no posters or diplomas on the walls—just a single framed photo of Eric and War in dress blues, arms linked, faces grave and young.

The bedding itself was simple—navy sheets, gray comforter, and everything tucked military tight. Even the pillows looked regulation. The only mess was a pair of running shoes and a heap of workout clothes in the corner, their sweat-and-fabric tang faint but not unpleasant.

I hovered in the doorway while War stripped the comforter, shaking out clean sheets he’d obviously retrieved from his linen storage. I watched his hands, steady and strong, as he smoothed the fitted corners, his focus totally on the task at hand. The air in the room was warm from the recently set sun, and it had a quiet I hadn’t known in years, as though the world outside didn’t exist.

“Okay,” he said, turning. “If you want to shower, towels are in the cabinet. You can go first.”

I shook my head. “We can both go.”

He froze for a moment, and the heat in my face was immediate. I tried to backpedal, but the words just hung there, dumb and eager. War’s expression didn’t change, but I saw the shiver behind his eyes. He nodded, only once, and led the way down the hall.

The bathroom was clinical with white tile and gray grout. The only decoration was a pine-scented candle on the counter which was half burned, and a razor sat in front of the mirror above.

I peeled off my shirt awkwardly, aware that War was watching. He undressed without embarrassment, then stepped into the shower first, his body a wall of scar and muscle. The sight of him bare and real knocked the air from my lungs. I’d never get used to seeing him like this, but I could now. He was my boyfriend.

The water was already running hot. Steam rose off his shoulders as he ducked under the spray, wetting his hair. He reached back and held the curtain open for me, and I stepped inside, feeling suddenly small and delicate next to him.

The space was barely enough for two. Our bodies brushed as we maneuvered. I washed quickly, hands trembling with adrenaline and something like awe. War grabbed the shampoo, squirted some in his palm, and nodded for me to turn around.

I faced the tile. He lathered my hair, his fingers gentle as they worked in slow circles. His touch was methodical. When he rinsed, he cradled the back of my head in his palm like I was made of glass. I exhaled, eyes fluttering shut. I let myself imagine what it would be like to do this every day—to wake up beside him, to eat pasta and watch dumb TV, and to exist without fear or shame.

He ran the bar soap down my spine. It wasn’t sexual, but rather him cleaning off the day. The tenderness in it wrecked me. My throat tightened and I fought to keep my breath even.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice rough.

I nodded, water running in my eyes, and reached up to catch his hand. I turned, soap suds sliding down my back, and looked at him—really looked. His scars were still there, a physical reminder of all the pain he’d suffered. His face, up close, was soft, the harshness smoothed by a layer of something vulnerable and almost pleading. This man wanted me but didn’t know how to be a romantic partner.

“Yeah. It’s perfect.”

We toweled off in silence. I watched him in the mirror as he wiped steam from the glass and ran a comb through his hair.

“You can wear these,” he said, handing me a folded T-shirt and boxers that he’d retrieved from his dresser. The shirt was faded black with a US navy logo. I pulled it on and the fabric was soft against my skin. The hem hung past my hips and the boxers were big enough to swim in, and it was almost better to wear nothing. But I liked being in his clothes, even if they were huge on me and I had to hold them up. War watched, not hiding the way his eyes tracked every movement, and I felt heat coil low in my gut. Pleasure simmered low and tight.

He dressed in sweats again, then cleared his throat. “You want to watch another show, or . . . ?”

I shook my head. “I want to lie down.”

He nodded and led the way back to the bed. The new sheets were crisp and the comforter cool and inviting. I climbed in, pulling the blankets up to my chin. He hesitated at the edge, then sat, the mattress dipping with his weight.