Chapter 55
Alex's POV
I settled her on the living room sofa, movements as gentle as possible. As I bent to set her down, my cheek inadvertently brushed her neck.
The living room was dim, only city light filtering through the windows. This light made her eyes look greener, her lips redder.
Fuck.
My control was crumbling.
She seemed to sense my state and started changing the subject. "How about we watch a movie together?"
"Now?"
I looked at her, at the anticipation in her eyes, at how the alcohol and exhaustion made her seem particularly soft.
"Okay," I said.
She grabbed the remote. "I downloaded some horror films last week. I've been wanting to watch them."
Horror films. Of course.
"Sounds good."
She moved closer, her shoulder pressing against mine. "You're not afraid of scary movies, are you?"
I looked at the challenge in her eyes, couldn't help the smile tugging at my lips.
"Terrified," I said dryly.
Her laugh was soft, genuine, like something I never knew I needed.
The opening credits began to roll. Grace's head found its place on my shoulder, her hand resting lightly on my arm.
Outside, Starport's night continued. But in this dim living room, time seemed to stop.
Just us, and the soft glow of the TV screen.
When I looked down at Grace again, she had already drifted into sleep. Feeling her even breathing, my lips curved upward involuntarily.
---
Grace's POV
Morning light crept through the curtains, warm against my eyelids.
I blinked awake, my head fuzzy from last night's wine. The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic below.
Alex.
The memory hit me all at once—his family, the dinner, the way he'd carried me through the lobby like I weighed nothing. The movie we'd started watching before I...
Oh God, I fell asleep on him.
I sat up abruptly, throwing off the blanket, searching for him.
He was right there.
Alex lay in the armchair, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped across his chest. His jacket was gone, tie loosened, top button undone. In the soft morning light, he looked almost unreal—sharp jaw relaxed, dark lashes against his cheeks, that perpetual tension finally smoothed from his face.
I crouched beside him, guilt twisting in my stomach. I should wake him. Tell him to use the guest room. At least get him a proper pillow.
But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
He looked so peaceful. So different from the Alex who commanded boardrooms and made hundred-million-dollar decisions without blinking.
My hand moved before I could stop it, fingers hovering over his face. His eyelashes were longer than I'd noticed before, dark and thick. I traced their path with my fingertip, barely touching—
His eyes opened.
"Caught you," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
I jerked back. "I wasn't—"
Before I could scramble away, his hand shot out, catching my wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to keep me there.
He pulled my hand to his cheek, pressing my palm against the morning stubble along his jaw.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Why did you sleep here?" I managed. "I have a guest room. You could've—"
"I watched you fall asleep," he said simply. "Didn't want to move and wake you. Next thing I knew, it was morning."
The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, like spending an uncomfortable night in a chair was the most natural thing in the world.
Stop looking at me like that.
"Can I ask you something?" His thumb traced circles on my wrist.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Would you make me breakfast?" His eyes held mine. "I want to taste what you cook."
---
Twenty minutes later, I stood in the kitchen, trying to focus on not burning the French toast.
Alex sat at my small breakfast bar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, watching me work. The domesticity of it made my chest tight.
This is what married people do. Wake up together. Make breakfast. Share coffee.
We were engaged, yes. But we hadn't gone through the legal process to officially marry yet.
Yet standing here, flipping toast while he watched with those intense blue eyes, I could almost pretend.
Almost.
I plated the French toast with fresh berries, added perfectly sunny-side-up eggs and roasted tomatoes. Nothing fancy, but the presentation looked decent.
"Here." I set the plate in front of him.
He picked up his fork, cut a piece, brought it to his mouth. I found myself holding my breath as he chewed.
"Good," he said finally. A smile pulled at his lips—rare and genuine. "Really good."
Warmth flooded through me.
"When we're officially together," he said, voice dropping lower, "I want this. Every morning. You and me, starting the day like this."
The words hung between us.
"Okay," I heard myself say.
I moved to fix my own plate, but he caught my hand, pulling me around to face him. His other hand found my waist.
"You meant that?" he asked quietly.
"I don't say things I don't mean."
His smile widened—slow and devastating. "Good to know."
We stood there, the food forgotten, his thumb tracing patterns on my hip through my silk pajamas. The apartment felt smaller suddenly, the air charged.
I cleared my throat. "You should eat before it gets cold."
"Right." But he didn't let go immediately.
After breakfast, I helped him fix his collar in the hallway mirror. My fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, too aware of his heartbeat under my palm, the warmth of his skin through the fabric.
Our eyes met in the reflection.
Don't think about kissing him. Don't think about—
His phone shattered the moment.
His expression turned serious—clearly business matters. He ended the call and kissed my cheek.
"I'll come back tonight," he said naturally, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.