The morning light in Queens was different now. It didn't feel like a threat; it felt like an invitation.
I stood at the window of the small apartment above the Silver Star, the scent of Reid's expensive coffee mingling with the faint, comforting smell of Lou's bacon downstairs. I was wearing one of Reid's oversized white shirts, the cuffs rolled up, and the gold band on my finger catching the sun.
"You're thinking about her," Reid's voice came from behind me—low, gravelly, and still thick with sleep.
He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back against the hard, warm plane of his chest. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his stubble grazing my skin and sending a familiar shiver down my spine.
