Page 68 of Chasing Kit

Kit threw his head back and laughed.

I groaned, slapping my hands over my face. “Mom.”

When she left the room laughing, the space felt different—fuller and safer, as if the walls themselves were holding us up.

Kit flopped on the bed, bouncing once before sprawling out, arms flung overhead.

“She’s amazing,” he said.

“She’s better than I deserve.” I sat down beside him, close enough that our knees touched.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so wanted. Not as a weapon, not as a reaper, but as someone’s son. As a man in love, maybe.

Kit took my hand, and for the first time since Eric had died, I let myself believe I was home. It wasn’t a place, it was him.

I glanced around.

The guest room was smaller than I expected. The walls were painted a buttery yellow, the sort of color you couldn’t buy in the city, and were dotted with hand-stenciled daisies—mom’s attempt at whimsy. The window above the bed was half covered by a curtain so thin it turned sunlight into pure gold, and the air smelled faintly of clean linen and whatever soap she used to keep the place forever new.

A twin bed, old but serviceable, sat pressed against the far wall. The coverlet was quilted, squares of blue and green and pink stitched by hands steadier than mine. A brass reading lamp sat on the nightstand, next to a stack of ancient Reader’s Digest books and a coaster painted with a smiling cow. The only other furniture was a wicker chair and the dresser with two folded, white towels.

Everything in this space was a silent but kind reminder that even strangers deserved small comforts. Mom had always been caring.

Kit perched on the edge of the mattress, his duffel at his feet. He ran his hand over the quilt, the touch slow and thoughtful, like he was reading the pattern by braille.

“How do you feel now?” His voice was barely more than a breath, but his stare was hopeful. “I mean really.”

I sat next to him and picked at the rough edge of a seam, eyes landing on the lace at the window, fluttering with the movement of a gentle breeze.

“I feel . . . .” The word stuck in my throat. I couldn’t explain the emotion in one simple adjective. “I feel safer than I have in years.”

Kit smiled at that—small, but genuine. He scooted closer, letting his knees knock against mine. The bed creaked, but neither of us moved away.

“I’m glad,” Kit whispered. He leaned in, fingers combing through the damp strands of my hair where the humidity had turned it wet. His touch was light, but it burned in the best way. When I didn’t meet his gaze, he caught my chin with a single finger, tilting my head until our gaze locked.

His eyes turned soft. “You don’t have to say anything else, you know.”

I didn’t. I just wanted to feel.

He slid closer so our thighs touched. I’d never noticed how much smaller Kit was than me—how his frame fit against mine like the missing piece in a puzzle. His palm drifted along my collarbone, thumb tracing the new goose bumps there.

I let out a shaky breath, and he kissed my hand. A quiet, patient kiss, like I might vanish if he moved too fast.

I reached for him—slow, because even now, eight months later, I was afraid to want this so much—and rested my hand at his waist. His shirt was soft, the warmth of him radiating out, chasing the chill from my skin. He curled against me, burying his nose in my neck.

“Okay?” he whispered.

I nodded and that was enough.

His lips traced a line from my jaw to the corner of my mouth. I could taste the lemon bars and the sugar. Maybe the smallest trace of tears that hadn’t fully dried. I opened for him, the first kiss so gentle I thought my heart might stop, but the next was deeper. Hungrier. Needier.

Kit’s hand slid up under my shirt, splaying wide across my back. He was trembling, just a little, which made me brave. I leaned in, letting our bodies meet. Every point of contact felt more necessary than air.

I’d had sex before Kit, but I’d never had this—never the slow build, never the trust. Kit kissed me like he wanted to memorize every inch of me. He mapped my scars with his tongue, dragged his nails along my ribs, and when I hissed, he only smiled and did it again.

I rolled him onto his back, careful of the headboard, careful of everything. He gripped my shoulder, nails digging in, eyes wide and wild.

“You’re shaking,” he said, but he was trembling more.