Page 122 of That Rush

I refuse to call this forever.

In the quiet moment before sleep takes me, I cannot deny the man holding me may already feel like home.

Chapter 17

Aiden

The smell of coffee and toast fills Paige’s kitchen. In the living room, morning light pools around the armchair where Paige sits reading, her bare legs tucked beneath her. Josie is stretched on the rug, lost in her own book. It’s been six minutes since either of them spoke—I know because the ticking clock above the stove is the only sound besides the sizzle of eggs and the soft turn of a page. Josie hums a single, wandering note, and Paige’s hand appears over the side of the chair, tapping the top of her book twice without a word.

Paige doesn’t look up from her page. “You’re singing the same four words again.”

“I only remember four.”

“Ah. The four-word version.”

Josie goes back to reading. Her foot rests against the side of Paige’s chair, and Paige leaves it there.

Paige lets my daughter occupy herself without turning their morning into an activity or a test of how well she handles a six-year-old. She reads her book. Josie reads hers. They share the patch of morning sun with no need to perform for each other.

I turn off the burner before I ruin breakfast.

Paige lifts her gaze. Her hair is loose and sleep-mussed, and the collar of her faded library T-shirt slips toward one shoulder. I spent part of last night with my mouth on that skin. This morning, that familiar challenge in her eyes still lands the same way.

“Are the eggs in danger?” she asks.

“They’re fine.”

“You’ve been staring at that skillet for a solid minute.”

“I wasn’t looking at the eggs.”

Her eyes hold mine across the room, warm with the memory we cannot discuss in front of Josie.

I love her.

The realization lands the way I know things when I’m working cattle or judging how much time remains before a storm reaches us.

Josie’s affection makes the picture in front of me sweeter. My love begins with Paige herself. She protects the life she built and still chooses to open the door for us. She challenges me when certainty turns into arrogance, catches the one detail I miss, laughs with her whole face, and refuses to become easier merely to make anyone else more comfortable.

I love her because she is completely herself beside us.

Once I can name what I want, I build toward it. I make plans, arrange schedules, and trust solid walls. The instinct rises now as clearly as the love itself. I want her books mixed with mine, her coffee in my kitchen, and her quiet woven through mornings at the ranch.

Paige asked me to keep asking. I can want that future without treating it as decided.

The difference feels simple while I stand in her kitchen. Wanting belongs to me. The answer still belongs to her.

“Daddy,” Josie says, “the eggs smell ready.”

“They’ve been ready.” Paige closes her paperback around one finger. “Your father is wrestling with the existential purpose of these eggs.”

“I’m making food.”

“Very bravely.”

I carry three plates to the small table. Paige passes close enough to slide her palm over my back as she takes her seat, the touch lingering at my waist.

“Good morning,” she says.