Tara stood frozen for a moment, hand over her lips.
He didn't tell her. He could've called. Could've sent a message. Could've done anything. But he chose to come home quietly. Her heart twisted.
She walked to his side slowly, her fingertips hovering just above his arm. She didn't want to wake him yet. She just wanted to look.
To memorize.
To remind herself that this—this sleeping, slightly pouty, very unfairly handsome man—was hers.
His breathing was deep and even. His chest rose and fell gently under the worn T-shirt he had probably owned since college. His lips were still full, soft, parted just slightly, and his jawline looked sharper than it had any right to. He even had a tiny scratch near his chin—probably from shaving in a rush.
Tara crouched down beside the bed, resting her chin gently on the edge of the mattress as she watched him.
***
