Page 22 of For Pucking Ever

He sighs in his sleep but doesn't wake. The sound curls around me like smoke and I wonder when exactly I started dismantling my own defenses. I don't move.

"Je ne sais pas si je pourrai un jour arrêter de te toucher." I don't know if I'll ever be able to stop touching you, I whisper against his skin. God help me.

I remain locked in place as Derrick shifts against me, his breathing pattern changing. It's time. I gently nudge his shoulder, immediately missing his warmth as he blinks awake, disoriented. He sits up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand like a child. Then he swipes at a small trail of drool at the corner of his mouth, looking momentarily embarrassed.

Then it happens, a smile. Not the polite, practiced one he's been giving me since the injury. Not the hollow one he flashes when talking to his agent. A real smile, bright enough to cast shadows. The kind of smile I'd forgotten existed, that reaches his eyes and transforms his entire face.

My chest tightens. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it until this moment.

"Sorry." He stretches, his back popping. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You needed it." I keep my voice casual, neutral, as if I haven't just spent the last hour memorizing the weight of him against me. "Your brain needs rest to heal. More than your body."

He nods, placing his hands on the couch to push himself up. When he wobbles slightly, I'm there before I can think, my hand steadying his elbow, the other at his waist. He's solid beneath my palm, warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. For a heartbeat, we're too close. Close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the way his lashes curl at the ends.

I clear my throat, stepping back. "Let's get you some food. Then I'll help you get ready for bed."

He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. "I don't think I need you to shower me anymore, Bast, really."

The tension breaks. I arch an eyebrow, grateful for the familiar rhythm of our banter. "I wasn't offering but if the Princesse needs my hands, then all you have to do is ask." The words slip out before I can stop them, too close to the truth, too heavy with suggestion. "Are you asking, Princesse?" I press, even as I'm screaming at myself to shut up.

Derrick startles slightly, his eyes widening. "No," he says quickly. . .too quickly. "I'm okay enough to take care of myself." He straightens, squaring his shoulders like he's preparing for a face-off. "I have to start taking my rehabilitation into my own hands."

I swallow, recognizing the determination in his voice. This is the fire I've been waiting to see again.

"We're doing things differently going forward, remember?" he adds, holding my gaze.

"Yeah." I nod slowly. "We are."

Things will be different going forward. I'll make damn sure of it. For as long as Derrick is here with me, he is mine. He just doesn't know it yet. One touch was enough to confirm what I'd been fighting against. One brush of my lips against his skin wasn't nearly enough. I need—fuck it—I want more. Right now, Derrick needs steady ground beneath his feet more than he needs my selfish desires complicating things. So, I'll be that ground. For as long as it takes.

"Food first," I say, moving toward the kitchen. "Then you can prove how independent you are."

I catch the relief in his expression as he follows me, a careful distance between us. The kitchen feels safer somehow. The bright lights, practical tasks, the rhythm of chopping vegetables drowning out the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

"Sit," I point to the stool at the island. "I'll make something quick and easy."

He hesitates, then sits, watching me move around the kitchen with curious eyes. "I haven't seen you cook before."

"There's a lot you haven't seen," I respond, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. The words hang in the air, loaded with more meaning than I intended.

For a moment, we're just looking at each other across the marble countertop, something unspoken stretching between us like a tightrope neither of us is brave enough to walk. Then Derrick smiles again, smaller this time but just as genuine, and the kitchen suddenly feels like the warmest place I've been in years.

NINE

DERRICK

I’m sweating bullets. My shirt’s clinging to my back like it’s trying to fuse with my spine, and every breath feels like I’m inhaling steam.

“You said a light walk,” I grumble, dragging one foot after the other up the winding trail. “This feels like a covert military operation.”

Bast just smirks without breaking stride. “It’s Interlaken Park. A one-mile loop. Barely 160 feet of elevation. You’ll survive.”

“Tell that to my thighs,” I mutter. “I haven’t exercised in weeks. I’ve been living like a bat in a blackout cave.”

“Exactly why we’re out here,” he tosses back without missing a beat.

The trail is beautiful, annoyingly so. It’s thick with trees, green and endless, like a painting come to life. Sunlight filters through the canopy overhead in soft, golden streaks. Birds chirp. Something buzzes near my ear and I swat at it like I’m under siege.