75. Chapter 75

She’s used to memorizing the path through his furniture to his front door as he drunkenly kisses her, gropes her, as his uncomfortable hands back her desperate-to-feel-but-not-feeling-anything-but-vague-discomfort body to his bed, to his couch, to his kitchen counter. She memorizes the path because she will leave when he falls asleep, without turning any of the lights on, because she doesn’t want to wake him; doesn’t want to be asked for her number; doesn’t want to be asked if it was good for her, because, inevitably, it wasn’t.

Or, in the rare occasions that he seems smart enough, that he seems gentle enough, that he smiles broadly enough, that she’s drunk enough, to take him back to her apartment, the warm body that she drifts off next to is an empty space, a vaguely dented pillow and pulled back sheets in the morning.

Alex Danvers is used to one night stands.

So when she takes Maggie upstairs – takes her upstairs because she’s more than smart enough, more than gentle enough, her smile is more than broad enough, but oddly, neither of them are the least bit drunk – and they fall into bed together, Alex finds herself doing many, many things she’s never done before.

Screaming her name. Gripping at her back because she needs her closeness like she needs oxygen. Gasping and moaning and writhing and cumming, none of it contrived, none of it faked, all of it perfect.

But Alex Danvers is used to one night stands.

So when she rolls her completely sated, completely spent body off of Maggie’s at god knows what hour in the morning; when she kisses her and pulls her close and Maggie sighs and melts into her naked embrace; when she feels Maggie kiss the hand that’s wrapped around her body, when she hears Maggie’s breathing slow and even out in sleep, Alex fights to stay awake.

Fights to stay awake because she’s used to one night stands, and she wants this to last as long as it can.

But sleep wins, and her heart threatens to shred when her eyes crack open into the morning light a few hours later, because she knows – she knows – that the bed next to her will be empty. Will be cold. Will be nothing but a memory.

She doesn’t want to turn. Doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want to confirm that she was nothing more than an easy fuck for the woman she was falling in love with.

But she is Alex Danvers, and she does not shy from what she’s afraid of, so she turns.

And her heart bursts.

She grits her teeth and she swallows and she resists the desire to light everything on fire.

She drags herself out of bed because dammit, if Maggie Sawyer is so apparently intent on pretending that nothing happened, she can be, too.

But the kitchen smells like pancakes and the kitchen smells like coffee, and the moment she pads out of the bedroom two tiny hands slip around her waist and soft lips find the nape of her neck.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Breakfast sound good?”

Maggie’s voice is gravelly with sleep and Maggie’s voice is relaxed and Maggie’s voice is content and Maggie’s voice is happy and Maggie’s voice is there, here, because Maggie stayed, and Alex has never felt so loved.

“Breakfast sounds perfect.”