Chapter 15: Morning Light
The morning light crept across the bedroom like honey, slow and golden, painting long stripes across the worn floorboards. I woke to warmth, to the solid weight of an arm draped over my waist, and the soft whisper of breath against the back of my neck.
Allan's hand rested low on my hip, his fingers curled against the curve of my rear end through the thin cotton of my tank top. He'd settled sometime in the night, pulling me close against his chest, and I had molded to him like I'd been made to fit there. His chest pressed warm against my spine. His heartbeat thrummed steady and slow through his ribs.
I lay still, afraid to break the spell. The farmhouse was quiet around us, no creaks or groans, just the sound of our breathing and the distant call of a bird somewhere beyond the window. The locket at my throat felt cool against my skin. I thought about how far I'd come from that sterile room where Vance-Ross had spoken in that flat, clinical voice. How strange that this body, this borrowed shell, had found something like peace.
His hand moved, fingers flexing gently against the curve of my rear, and I felt the warmth of his palm press through the cotton. A small noise escaped me before I could catch it, something soft and embarrassingly content.
"Sabrina," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, barely more than breath against my hair.
I turned slowly, carefully, until I faced him. His eyes were still closed, his face relaxed and boyish in sleep, the sharp lines of his jaw softened by the morning light. Dark stubble shadowed his cheeks. His lips parted slightly, and he breathed out a sigh that smelled faintly of sleep and toothpaste from last night.
I reached up and brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead. His eyes opened then, flint-gray and hazy, and for a long moment he just looked at me. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Morning," he said, his voice still gravelly.
"Morning," I whispered.
His hand slid from my hip to the small of my back, and he pulled me closer, closing the last inch of space between us. His lips found mine, soft and unhurried, tasting of warmth and morning breath. I melted into him, my own hand curling against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart through his thin t-shirt.
The kiss deepened without urgency, a slow exploration, the kind that said we had nowhere to be and nothing to do but this. His fingers traced the curve of my spine through the cotton, sending small shivers across my skin. I made a soft sound, and he smiled against my mouth, sliding his hand up to cup the back of my head, tangling his fingers in my hair.
The world outside the farmhouse dissolved. There was no witness protection, no erased identity, no dead accountant named Justin Zygurski. There was only this bed, this warmth, this man who looked at me like I was something precious.
When we finally broke apart, his forehead rested against mine. His breath came quick and warm, mingling with mine.
"I could get used to waking up like this," he said, a hint of shyness bleeding through his usual confidence.
"Me too," I admitted, and the honesty of it surprised me.
He traced a thumb along my jawline, his gaze soft and searching. "That coffee's going to get cold."
"What coffee?"
He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest and into mine. "I started the pot before I came to bed last night. Timer's set for six-thirty."
I blinked at him. He had set a timer for coffee. He had thought about my morning before he had even fallen asleep. Something in my chest tightened, fragile and warm.
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me," I said, only half joking.
"Wait until you taste it," he said, kissing the tip of my nose. "I did it before. It made it to six. Doesn't usually make it past seven."
I laughed, and the sound felt new, lighter than I remembered having in years. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he kissed me again, softer this time. His hand slid down to rest on my bare thigh where my shorts had ridden up in the night.
"Stay a little longer?" I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
His answer was to pull me against him, pressing his lips to my forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."
I let my eyes drift closed, sinking into the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek. The sunlight crept further across the floor, and somewhere in the house the coffee maker gurgled and hissed, filling the air with the dark, bitter promise of morning. But I didn't move. Neither did he.
We lay there, tangled together, as the world outside slowly woke. And for the first time since I had opened my eyes in this new body, I didn't feel like a stranger in it.