Chapter 82: The Morning of Belonging
Rhys was wiping down the counter, the swipe of the cloth leaving streaks in the morning sunlight, when Aurora’s voice floated from the kitchen table.
“Could you pass the butter, fiancé?”
He paused. The word hit him in the center of the chest, a warm, blunt weight.He turned.
She was perched in one of his heavy oak chairs, dwarfed by it, her legs tucked underneath her.She had his old navy t-shirt on, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair was a messy halo, her mark visible above the collar. She was buttering a piece of toast with intense concentration, not looking at him. The faintest, most smug little curve played on her lips.
He picked up the butter dish and walked it over, setting it down deliberately in front of her. He braced his hands on the table, leaning down so his face was level with hers. “Fiancé, huh?”
She glanced up, her hazel eyes wide and innocent.“Well.You are.” A tiny shrug. “Aren’t you?”
He’d asked her.She’d said yes. It had been raw and urgent in the dark, a promise sealed by skin and breath. Hearing it now, in the plain light of day, dressed in nothing but domesticity, was something else entirely.“I am,” he said, his voice low. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Just like the sound of it, that’s all.”
“I do,” she admitted, a blush painting her cheeks.She looked back at her toast. “I like saying it out loud. It makes it real.” She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed.“My mate gets me more coffee?”
Another direct hit.Mate. This time, a low rumble of pure pleasure vibrated in his throat before he could stop it. He straightened up, taking her mug. “Your mate lives to serve.”
He turned to the coffee maker, hiding the sheer, disbelieving grin that split his face.Fiancé.Mate. His.He poured the coffee, the rich, bitter scent grounding him. There was a time, not so long ago, when the very idea of this—of a soft voice in his kitchen claiming him so openly—would have felt like a trap.A lie waiting to happen. He’d matched with a sweet, anonymous girl online because he’d been angry, and hollow, and needing an outlet that didn’t come with complications.He’d found Aurora instead. And now, watching her from across the room as she nibbled her toast, tracing the grain of his wood table with a delicate finger, he couldn’t access the man he’d been before her. That guy was a ghost.A sketch. This—the fullness in his chest, the rightness of her scent in his house, the quiet certainty that hummed along the bond—this was the only reality that mattered.
Life couldn’t get more perfect than this.
“What are you thinking about over there?” she asked.
He brought her coffee, setting it down and then pulling her chair out, lifting her effortlessly before settling himself in it and depositing her onto his lap. She melted into him instantly, a warm, pliant weight. “Thinking I need to fix that wobbly leg on the dining chair before you tip over,” he said, nipping lightly at her ear.
She giggled, swatting his chest.“Liar.”
“Okay. I was thinking my fiancée is a bossy little thing when she wants to be.”
She preened, sipping her coffee from his lap. “I’m not bossy. I’m just… making sure my assets are properly managed.”
He barked a laugh, the sound loud and easy in the quiet kitchen. “Assets?”
“You’re a very valuable asset, Rhys.” She said it with such earnest solemnity he had to kiss her to stop himself from laughing again.The kiss tasted of coffee and wheat and her.
Later, he was in the living room, the problematic chair upside down on a drop cloth, a small set of tools beside him. He was sanding down a shim, the rhythmic scratch-scratch-scratch a familiar meditation.Aurora padded in, having stolen another of his shirts. She watched him for a minute, then sat cross-legged on the floor near his knee. “Can I help?”
“Hold this.” He handed her the metal clamp.
She held it dutifully, her small hands looking absurd against the steel. He fitted the shim, applied glue, and maneuvered the leg back into position.“Clamp it right there,” he instructed, pointing. “Tight as you can.”
She bit her lip in concentration, her arms straining as she tightened the screw mechanism. “Good?”
“Perfect.” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her purr kicked in, a contented motor against the silence. He wiped his hands on a rag.“See? We make a good team.”
“We do,” she said, resting her chin on her knees, watching him clean up.The sunlight caught the gold in her hair. “Fiancé?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“When do you think we’ll get married?”
The question was soft, devoid of pressure, full of simple curiosity.It stopped him. He looked at her, this woman who had bulldozed into his wreckage and, with nothing but quiet trust, started rebuilding something solid and beautiful.He’d been thinking rings, a date, a plan. He’d been turning it over in his mind like one of his engine projects, methodically, carefully.
“Soon,” he said, the word a vow. “I don’t want to wait.” The memory of his past, the betrayal that had left him cynical, was just a faint scar now.It had no place here.“You want a big thing? A small thing?”
She tilted her head.“Just you.And me.And someone to make it official. Maybe… outside?”
“The backyard could work.” He imagined it—her standing under the old oak tree, sunlight dappling through the leaves.No spectacle.No performance. Just them, and the truth they’d already forged.Her smile was so bright it nearly undid him. “I want to be your wife.” She said it like she was confessing the most delicious secret.“Aurora Cross. It sounds… unshakeable.”
He moved then, leaving the tools, the chair, everything. He knelt on the drop cloth beside her, gathering her face in his hands. Sawdust and cinnamon and her.He didn’t have the words. He just pressed his forehead to hers, letting the bond say what he couldn’t: the gratitude, the awe, the fierce, unending yes.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.“It does. It sounds perfect.” He kissed her, slow and deep.“Soon,” he promised again against her lips.
She nodded, her eyes sparkling. “Okay, fiancé.”
He helped her up, the world narrowing once more to the warmth of her hand in his, to the path stretching ahead, clear and solid and theirs. The day was wide open, and for the first time in forever, he couldn’t wait to see what came next.