Like she’s read my mind, her hand slips over my pajama pants, gripping me. The blanket falls off one shoulder, exposing her breast. And she smiles over my sharp inhale, seeing her like this. We are raw from kissing. Raw from fucking. Yet, I want her again, desperately, like we haven’t spent the last eight hours this way.

She agrees without a word when she lets the blanket fall to her feet.

Naked Marina, drenched in morning sun. Achingly beautiful.

A protective pang rips through me, scanning our surroundings. I don’t want anyone to see her. She is for me. But it’s a quiet nook of the lakefront. It’s early, and the mist acts like a shield. I hope.

She backs against a post, and I follow, devouring her lips, her neck, as she wraps her legs around me. She moans full-on when I push inside, scaring birds into flight nearby, which makes her laugh. I love that she’s having fun with me. That she wants me like this. That dock-fucking might become a thing for us, like playing chess and impromptu things at Rebellion.

I want us to have so many things.

After, we shower. She lets me braid her hair, a much sexier activity than the first time I did it. We fix breakfast. Over coffee on the back porch, we make plans. It’s Sunday. Barring any emergencies, we’re both off. She wants to play chess and learn how to fish.

I’m in heaven.

Her ringing phone breaks our peaceful moment. She rushes inside, searching for it in her bag.

“Wren?” she answers. “Everything⁠—”

In the heavy pause, her demeanor changes, light to dark, in a cold second.

“What?” Her voice trembles before she swallows a lump in her throat and seems to return to herself. “Yes, I’m sorry, Wren. I hate that you’re in that position. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She ends the call and calmly reports, “There’s a woman at my door claiming to be my mother. Wren doesn’t know what to do.”

It’s impossible to gauge her reaction—she’s stoic like her shields went up at the word mother.

“It’s okay.” I grab my keys and offer a weak smile. “Let’s go. Whatever happens, I’ve got you.”

I don’t know if she hears me because she’s already pulling on her sweater and reaching for her bag. I follow her outside. In The Beast, she says nothing, even when I prompt her, only stares out the window and fidgets with her fingers.

The Beast squeaks to a stop behind an old, red Honda Pilot, packed to the brim with stuff, even on the luggage rack. Wren leans against the front door, closed behind her, like a sentry at a castle. A woman in her late forties with flaming red hair stands on the porch steps, unquestionably Marina’s mother.