Gace’s POV
I stand at the coffee maker, lost in morning fog, watching dark liquid drip into the pot with the mindless focus of someone who hasn't fully woken up yet.
My body still aches in places I'd forgotten could ache, phantom sensations from last night lingering on my skin like invisible bruises.
The memory of Cole's mouth on me while Ryan watched feels surreal in the morning light, like something I might have dreamed of if not for the tangible shift in the air of our house.
Footsteps behind me make me tense automatically—the careful dance we've been doing for weeks, that choreographed avoidance where we orbit each other in our own home without ever quite touching.
I prepare to shift left so Ryan can reach the cabinet, maintaining our invisible boundary lines.
But Ryan doesn't dodge around me. Instead, his hands settle on my waist with deliberate purpose, turning me gently to face him.
Before I can speak, before I can process this unexpected contact, his lips press against mine—soft, brief, but undeniably real.
Not the mechanical pecks of duty or the desperate attempts to prove something, but an actual kiss with warmth behind it, intention behind it, the first kiss since the hospital that doesn't feel like obligation.
"Have a good day," he says when he pulls back, actually smiling. "I have that early meeting with the Peterson account, but I'll be home for dinner."
Then he's gone, leaving me frozen in the kitchen with my fingers unconsciously touching my lips, trying to hold onto the sensation of something I thought was lost forever.
The coffee maker beeps its completion, but I can't move, can't process what just happened.
"Holy shit, did Ryan just kiss you?" Cole's voice comes from the doorway where he must have witnessed everything. "Like, actually kiss you? Not a pity kiss or an obligation kiss but a real 'I want to kiss my wife' kiss?"
"He did." My voice comes out wondering, amazed, like I'm confirming a miracle. "He kissed me and smiled. He hasn't smiled at me like that since before the accident."
Cole grins, that dangerous smile that makes my stomach flip despite everything.
"Looks like our cuckold therapy is working. Who knew watching your wife with another man could be medicinal? We should patent this treatment method."
"Don't call it cuckold therapy," I say, but I'm laughing, really laughing for the first time in months. The sound surprises me, bubbling up from somewhere I thought had gone dormant. "That's horrible. You're horrible."
"Would you prefer 'alternative marriage counseling'? Or maybe 'polyamorous rehabilitation services'?" He's fully smiling now, pleased with himself. "We could make business cards."
I grab the dish towel from the counter and throw it at him, but he catches it easily. "Absolutely horrible. How does anyone put up with you?"
"They usually don't," he says, and something flickers across his face too fast to catch. "That's kind of the point."
We settle at the kitchen table with our coffee, and it strikes me suddenly that I know Cole only through Ryan's stories—the best friend who can't commit, the player who never calls back, the gym rat.
But I don't know him, the actual person sitting across from me who held me while I cried, who touched me like I was precious, who's been living in our house for a week but might as well be a stranger in many ways.
"Tell me something I don’t know about you," I say impulsively. "Something real."
Cole pauses with his mug halfway to his lips, considering the question like it might be a trap. "I paint. Terribly, I should clarify. No natural talent whatsoever. But I love it."
"You paint?" The revelation doesn't fit with anything I thought I knew about him. "Like, with actual paintbrushes and canvases?"
"Watercolors, mostly. Started after Mom died three years ago."
He shrugs like it's nothing, but I catch the tension in his shoulders.
"Couldn't afford therapy, and punching things only helps so much. Painting is cheaper than whiskey and less destructive than my usual coping mechanisms."
"What do you paint?"
"Moments I want to remember." His eyes find mine across the table, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "Things I don't want to lose. I painted you last week, actually. After our first kiss."
"Cole..." I don't know what to say to that, to the idea that our kiss was worth preserving in watercolor, worth remembering with paint and paper.
"Anyways, there's a lot you don't know about me, Grace." He leans back in his chair, creating distance again. "Most people don't bother learning. Easier that way."
"Like what? That breaking women's hearts is some sort of hobby for you?" I mean it as a joke, but it comes out more serious than intended.
"You can put it that way if you want. The facts support it."
His voice carries practiced indifference, the tone of someone who's told this story before.
"Never had a relationship last more than three months. Never said 'I love you' to anyone, not romantically anyway. Never stayed for breakfast until... here."
"Why?" The question comes out soft, careful, like I'm afraid of the answer.
"Saw my mom cycle through men too much. Watched her give everything to people who were always halfway out the door."
He stares into his coffee like it holds answers.
"Learned early that feelings are just future disappointments dressed in pretty packaging. So I fuck and leave. It's cleaner. No expectations, no disappointments, no one gets hurt."
"Sounds lonely," I observe quietly.
"It's not lonely, it's just..." He struggles for words. "It is what it is. Unless you look at it the wrong way, then yeah, maybe it's lonely. But loneliness you choose is better than abandonment you don't see coming."
The pain under his casual tone makes my chest ache.
This is the Cole that Ryan doesn't know, maybe that no one knows—the man who paints watercolors of moments he wants to keep, who learned to leave before he could be left.
He stands suddenly, like the conversation has gotten too heavy, and moves around the table toward me. His movements are deliberate but gentle, and I stay still, curious about his intention.
His fingers find my ponytail, and with one smooth motion, he tugs the elastic free. My hair spills over my shoulders in waves, catching the morning light through the kitchen window.
"Better," he murmurs, his fingers combing through the strands before tucking a piece behind my ear with surprising tenderness. "You're beautiful like this. When not trying to hold everything so tightly together."
My heart hammers against my ribs from such a simple touch, such a small gesture of intimacy that somehow feels bigger than all our careful rules, bigger than what happened last night with Ryan watching.
This is just us, just Cole seeing me in a way that makes me feel exposed and treasured simultaneously.
"I should probably get dressed," I say, not moving.
"Probably," he agrees, also not moving.
We stay frozen in this moment, his hand still in my hair, my face tilted up toward his.
Both of us pretend this is normal, that this isn't crossing some invisible line that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with something deeper, something neither of us knows how to name.