The Shape of Us

The Shape of Us
The drive home was quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t need to be justified. The city glittered outside the windows, streetlights floating in the air like half-spoken secrets.
Reagan’s car glided smoothly up the private road, past an iron gate equipped with biometric sensors more advanced than most airports.
In the distance, a small lake reflected the low, moody lights. Pine trees lined the road like sentinels keeping watch over secrets that weren’t meant to escape.
When the car came to a stop, I opened the door slowly and stepped out onto the stone path. It was too quiet for the noise in my head. I felt him behind me, his steps relaxed but steady.
Always one step behind, or ahead, depending on what he wanted.
At the front door, just as my fingers brushed the handle, I heard him exhale behind me. Close. Too close. His hand reached for my wrist. Gentle. But firm enough to stop me.
“Gretta,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous like a breeze right before a storm.
I turned. His eyes were clouded. Not with alcohol or exhaustion but something else. Something I recognized far too well.
Longing.
Before I could speak, he cupped my face in his hands. Warm, large, the edges of his fingers rough like a man used to being in control. His thumbs traced the curve of my cheekbone, and then... he rubbed his nose against mine. Like a child. Or a man who knew just how much that small gesture unraveled me.
A laugh broke from me before I could stop it. “Reagan…” I whispered, half out of breath, “What are you—”
“I missed you,” he murmured. “Last night… I actually slept. For the first time in two years.”
I stilled.
He kept going, his eyes on mine like time had frozen around us. “Two years. I forgot what it felt like to wake up and not feel empty. But last night... you were in my arms again. And everything just… settled.”
I swallowed. “Don’t be dramatic. It was just a couch.”
“But your body,” he said quietly, pressing his forehead to mine, “still fits against mine like a stubborn puzzle piece. And you know it.”
I blinked, then bit my lip. "I need to sleep. Alone."
He raised an eyebrow… then pouted.
Yes. Reagan Milano, the man who could make bank CEOs crumble, was now looking at me like a little boy who just got told he couldn’t play at the park.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?” he asked, his voice way too serious to pass off as a joke. “In your bed. I promise I won’t—”
I snapped my head toward him, eyes sharp. “You won’t stop until I kick you out with a broom, will you?”
He nodded, that small, deadly smile of his curling at the corners. “You know I’m stubborn.”
I walked toward the stairs. He followed. Close. Too close.
When I stepped into my bedroom, he was still right behind me, his body nearly pressed against my back. And then… his arms wrapped around my neck from behind.
He held me like a child or rather, like a man who knew he could get away with murder just by smelling the way he did.
“Reagan,” I huffed, dragging his human-backpack-self toward the walk-in closet.
He laughed but didn’t let go. “I like this position. I can smell your perfume perfectly.”
“I need a shower,” I snapped.
“Can I join?” he whispered against my ear. “Like we used to.”
I froze. Turned around. My eyes flared like wildfire. “¡Dios mío! Do you think this is summer in Cancun? I’m not soap you can just grab whenever you feel like it.”
He threw his hands up in mock surrender, laughing, though his gaze stayed wicked. “Gretta… my love. We’ve showered together thirty-seven times. I remember every one. The soap that slipped onto your foot, the wet towel, you dumping cold water on me…”
I groaned, lifting my hands toward the ceiling. “God, take this man. Or at least whisper some common sense into my head before I throw a hairdryer at him.”
He smirked, finally stepping back and letting me head into the bathroom. “Fine,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “But I’ll be waiting. In bed. Shirtless.”
I whipped my head toward him. “Reagan!”
He burst out laughing, and before I could verbally murder him, he vanished behind the door, leaving me with a pounding heart and water that hadn’t even started running.
Damn it.
Reagan Milano was going to be the death of me. Either from love… or because one day, I’d actually throw something at his stupid, gorgeous head.