Chapter 11: Before the Storm
The next morning dawned unusually warm for the season, with sun filtering through the light curtains of my bedroom, spilling gold across the sheets and across Jonas's bare back.
He was still asleep, one hand tucked under the pillow, his hair slightly tousled, his breathing slow and steady.
I lay beside him, propped on my elbow, just watching. I could've watched him for hours.
The curve of his spine, the way his muscles moved with each breath, the small scar near his shoulder blade—I traced it with my eyes like a prayer I never learned to speak.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He stirred, blinked, then turned slowly to face me with a sleepy smile. "Good morning, detective."
I arched an eyebrow. "Detective?"
"You're watching me like you're memorizing evidence," he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. "Should I be concerned?"
I rolled my eyes and stretched, the sheet slipping slightly down my body. His gaze followed the movement like a magnet.
"Possibly," I said, leaning over to kiss the corner of his mouth. "You might be under investigation."
"Is that so?" he teased, now more awake. "And what exactly am I guilty of?"
"Of causing certain… physiological disturbances," I replied innocently, brushing my fingers along his chest.
His laugh was low and delicious. "Then I plead guilty. But if I'm going down, I'm taking you with me."
We kissed. Slowly at first. Then deeply. His hand slid along my waist, and suddenly I was beneath him again, laughing into his mouth as he kissed down my neck.
Just as his hand moved under the sheets, my stomach growled—loudly.
He pulled back and grinned. "Was that you or some hidden wild animal?"
I buried my face in the pillow. "I swear, that wasn't supposed to happen right then."
He leaned in, whispering against my ear, "Guess we need to feed the beast before I can continue devouring you."
Later, after a lazy breakfast half-eaten between kisses, we strolled hand in hand through a quiet market near the river.
It was a sleepy Sunday morning; vendors called out their prices, kids ran past with sticky hands and chocolate smiles, and the scent of roasted almonds filled the air.
Jonas stopped at a stall, talking to the cheerful old lady who sold homemade bread.
I stepped back to let them chat, and as I did, a tall, striking woman passed by and said something flirty to him in German—something I didn't quite catch, but I understood the tone.
And the giggle.
And the touch on his arm.
Something clenched in me.
I crossed my arms without realizing it.
Jonas thanked the woman, turned—and caught my expression.
"Wait," he said with a mischievous smile, coming toward me. "Was that… were you just jealous?"
I blinked. "No."
His grin widened. "Lina. That was a jealous pout. You even crossed your arms."
"I did not."
"You totally did."
I tried to turn away, but he caught my hand and gently spun me back toward him. "You know," he whispered against my temple, "if that was jealousy… I kind of liked it."
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling too now. "You're impossible."
He leaned in closer. "And you're mine.
Jealousy looks good on you, by the way."
"Careful," I warned, mock-serious. "I bite."
His eyes glinted. "Promise?"
That night, curled up in his arms on the couch, listening to music and eating leftover pasta out of the same bowl, I forgot, for a few hours, that storms could still come.
But they would.
And soon.