Nate took his seat at the kitchen table, the chair creaking faintly beneath his weight. His skin still glowed from the shower, his broad shoulders pink with heat, his frame so much larger than the chair could reasonably hold -- so much more present than the man who was supposed to be sitting there. Zoe moved with quiet purpose, setting the plate down in front of him -- Barry's plate. His food. His seat. But it was her mouth that was about to feed Nate something far more indulgent.
She didn't speak. She didn't have to. She just stood behind him for a breath, watching the way his muscles shifted beneath the fabric of his T-shirt as he reached for his fork. He filled the space like he belonged there. And maybe he did. Because when she sank to her knees beside him, it wasn't with uncertainty.
