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“Mm.” He hums when I give up on my escape plan and slowly—very slowly—move back into bed. His hand is very close to my dick, and my ass is very close to his. This is so close to the fantasy I was just indulging in, it’s almost funny. If he were awake and I asleep, I’d be living my dream sex-with-Ewan scenario that has resided rent-free in my brain since my teenage years.

“Ewan.” Exasperated, I mutter at him when he wiggles his hips even closer. If I didn’t know he was asleep, I’d think hewas being a shit on purpose. I grab his wrist and tug his hand up my chest when his movements bring his fingers perilously close to my groin. I’m still hard—getting harder by the minute, honestly—and none of this is helping right now.

“Is so dark,” he mumbles, and I nearly cry with relief. If he’s awake, I can roll him over and kiss him and maybe expel some of the pressure in my body. Now that I’ve had a taste of Ewan, I’m hungry for more and worried there might be a time when I’ll be starving again.

I kiss the palm of the hand I’m still holding. “Morning.”

“Too much morning,” he replies sleepily, which makes me laugh.

“You can go back to sleep.”

“Mm.” I feel a cool press of lips against my shoulder, and his hand flexes where I’ve got it cradled to my chest. I let him go, and he slides it down to my belly, stroking gently. After a few silent moments of sweet kisses to the back of my neck, he adds, “Cold.”

Carefully, I roll over. Moonlight filters through the gauzy window covering, but the room is mostly in darkness. Ewan, with his black hair, is visible in part only thanks to his pale skin. I touch his face, not needing the light to find it, and he breathes in sharply.

I’ve always loved the early mornings for how quiet and sacred they are. That transitional time when black bleeds into navy and only a few of us are awake is my favorite time of day. It’s not lost on me that I typically enjoy peace and solitude at this time, and yet waking up with Ewan so easily within reachhas tilted my reality enough to show me I was wrong. This is better. This—Ewan’s skin warm and smooth beneath my hands, his words sleepy and sated, kisses slow and honeyed—is better.

He makes small, needful noises in his throat, hands coasting over my chest and stomach and thighs. When he scratches his fingernails around my navel, I know he’s awake enough to be a tease. I kiss him a little harder, but not much. I like this sedate, loving pace we’ve set. It feels right for the moment, and right for how I want to treat him.

I wrap my fingers around both of us, stroking slowly, hand pressed between us as our bodies naturally try to move closer, lips meeting and retreating in a smooth dance. Time ebbs around us, Ewan a solid anchor against the tide of desire. Having started early, I come quicker than he does, the burn simmering back down to a comfortable heat but not dissipating fully as Ewan gasps his way through his own release. The drum of his heartbeat is violent against my hand when I touch my fingers to his chest, and the cooler air of the room feels good on my shoulders where the blanket slipped down. I use it to wipe my hand off and tug it back up, remembering Ewan’s earlier complaint and his propensity for getting cold.

He sighs, a deep, contented sort of exhale that brushes past my cheek. His fingers follow, scratching through my beard and down my neck. It tickles a little bit, but I don’t ask him to stop. When he’s silent for an extended period, I can’t help but laugh softly.

“Did you fall back asleep?” I whisper, just in case he really did.

“No.” He huffs, another warm breath of air tickling my ear. “But I could. You’re not getting up to go haul, right? It’s too early and too cold.”

“This is the normal time, and it’s not too cold. It’s April. Shit was a lot colder a month ago.” Another huff, this one paired with a little incredulous snort. “And no, I’m not getting up. Today is a day off.”

Ewan gasps. “You take days off? For shame.”

“Okay.” Since he can’t see my face, I make sure to play up the tone enough that he can hear an eye roll and visualize it himself.

“Does that mean we’re going to stay here and dirty up these sheets all day? Fuc—make love,” he corrects immediately, remembering what I’d said last night, “eat, and then do it all again?”

I smile. “I have no problem with that plan.”

“Excellent. Now let’s clean up and go back to sleep.” He doesn’t get up, though, instead shuffling closer and pulling the blanket up as though to tuck us in.

I should probably tell him the likelihood of me falling back asleep is very slim. I’m not built for idleness. I can’t even remember the last time I slept in or “wasted the day,” as my father would call it. But it’s hard to think of this as any sort of waste—Ewan so close I can smell the mixture of sweat and soap and me on his skin, shared warmth below sheets in a cold room, the promise of more to come with the sun.

No. A day spent just like this could never be considered a waste. I close my eyes.

Chapter Nineteen

EWAN

Itry not to think about what I’m doing. I try to focus on the sound of the ocean and birdsong coming through the open window. I try to focus on the groan of the house around me—Shiloh’s house—and the feelings I could turn into something beautiful, if only my body would cooperate. I fail.

Every time I touch the bristles to the canvas, it gets a little harder to breathe. The colors feel wrong, the shapes feel wrong, everything is justwrong. My fingers ache where they’re pinched too tightly around the brush, and the back of my head hurts, pain licking up my rigid spine to sit at the base of my skull. The smell of the paint—usually something I enjoy—is caustic and overwhelming. I blame that for how hard it is to breathe since I know it’s not actually possible for my rib cage to be shrinking,no matter how much it feels like someone is sitting behind me, cranking it smaller and smaller and smaller.

My therapist once told me that anxiety was miles long but only an inch deep, that my brain was good at making small things into big—molehills into mountains and puddles into oceans. But sometimes I wonder if my therapist is a fucking idiot because this isn’t a molehill. This is a goddamn Everest-sized mountain I’m scaling, and the anxiety, though unwelcome, is correct. Thisissomething I need to be worried about. This is my livelihood, the only thing I’m good at, and what if I’m not any longer? What if I was only allotted a set number of paintings and I’ve used them up? What am I good for if I can’t dothis?

Dropping the paintbrush, I shake my hands out. They’re zinging like little bees are buzzing to life in my fingertips. I’m probably having a stroke. Or a heart attack, rather, which would explain the difficulty breathing. Maybe I should jot down a few wishes on the canvas, make sure to leave everything to Shiloh, and let him know to just dump my body in the ocean and be done with it. A last will and testament would be better than the trash heap that’s currently painted on the damn thing. Fuck this.

Standing up, I continue shaking out my hands and arms, walking over to look out the window and wishing I had an ocean view. Wishing that the view I do have of the driveway also featured Shiloh’s truck coming home because I’m almost certain the cure for anxiety is the steady weight of someone sure. Honestly, Shiloh might be the cure for everything. Another thing my therapist would likely have a few opinions about.

Sighing, I leave the window, flip off the canvas, and exit the room. Shiloh told me, in no uncertain terms, that his house is my house; his things are my things, and I’m free to do as I wish while I’m here and he’s hauling. Even though I’ve spent every day this week here, I still feel a little weird about it. I’m comfortable being here with him, but being here alone has me feeling things I’m not sure I have any business feeling. Shiloh’s earnest “my home is your home” didn’t help. Because I want that to be true. In the deepest, most selfish parts of my soul, I want that to be true. I want what someone who left for seven years has no business wanting, has no right to ask for.