Page 105 of The Endless Want

He senses me before I speak. Of course he does. His shoulders loosen on a long breath, and he turns his head just enough to glance back at me.

“You’re up,” he says. His voice is gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” My voice comes out softer than intended. Somewhere between startled and relieved. “I… assumed you left.”

There’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile but not quite. “Didn’t want to.”

That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. I step further into the room, leaning on the back of one of the chairs to steady myself. “You’re making coffee?” I ask, because it’s safer than everything else I could say.

“Trying to.” He turns off the stove and pours the dark liquid into a mug before sliding it across the counter toward me. “You take it with sugar now, right?”

He noticed. He remembers. “Yes,” I say quietly. “Thank you.”

He watches me wrap my hands around the warm ceramic before he moves. He comes to stand beside me—not too close, not touching, but near enough that the air feels different around him. Warmer. Charged. And yet calm, unbelievably calm.

“Sleep okay?” he asks.

“No.” I let out a breath, honest. “But it wasn’t terrible.”

His nod is small, thoughtful. He studies my face in that way he always has, like he’s reading a map. The intensity is still there, but it’s gentled for once, smoothed around the edges.

He doesn’t ask permission when he steps closer. He just does. Slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. Then he lowers himself to one knee in front of me.

My breath stutters. His hand lifts—hesitates—and then rests on my stomach. The heat of his palm burns through the fabric of my shirt, and something in me threatens to unravel entirely.

He doesn’t speak. He just presses a kiss, soft and steady, to the small swell of my belly as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

My throat tightens so quickly I almost choke on it. “Declan…” I whisper.

He keeps his forehead against me for a moment longer, breathing out a long, quiet exhale that shakes just barely at the end. When he looks up, his eyes are unguarded. Raw. Almost vulnerable.

I have never seen him like this. And I don’t know what to do with the sight.

So I don’t do anything. I let the moment be what it is. A warm, impossible fragment of peace in a life that doesn’t allow much of it.

He rises slowly. Not brushing off his jeans or clearing his throat or acting like he didn’t just kneel in front of me. He stands there, close enough that the heat of his chest ghosts my skin. “Do you want breakfast?” he asks, voice still low, warm in a way I’m not used to. “I can make something.”

“You cook now?” I ask lightly.

He huffs a small laugh.

I take a sip of the coffee—it’s perfect—and something in the room shifts as if we both know this is the first morning in months that hasn’t ended in fighting or fear. “Declan,” I start, unsure where the sentence is going. “This is… different.”

His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t look away. “Different good or different bad?”

“I don’t know yet,” I say honestly. “But it feels honest.”

He nods, slowly, as if absorbing that. As if weighing it against everything we’ve been. “We can take the day,” he says. “You and me. No fights. No planning. Just… time.”

Time. As if that’s something either of us has been allowed. And yet the offer pulls something loose and tender inside me.

“I’d like that,” I say.

His shoulders ease—and the relief there is deeper than I expected. He reaches out, brushes his knuckles down my arm, barely touching, but the contact leaves a trail of warmth in its wake.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then let’s start over. Just for today.”

I nod. Just us, and the quiet between us that, for once, doesn’t hurt.