Steam curls upward as he works, the hiss and churn of the machine the only sound between us.
Kingston doesn't make eye contact with me or ask how I take it.
But when he slides the cup toward me, the crema is perfect. The temperature is just right and it’s made exactly how I like it.
I take it in my fingers, glancing at the cup, then at him, but he’s already taken a step back, towel now slung over one shoulder, his broad chest rising and falling as he breathes.
“Thanks,” I say, the word catching slightly in my throat.
He shrugs, turning away to sip from his own cup again, but there’s a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. Something buried like restraint.
And despite his standoffish mood, the act speaks louder than anything he’s said this morning. Because he remembered how I like my coffee. And somehow, that little detail cuts deeper than any kiss.
“You’re quiet,” I press, taking a sip. “Which is weird, considering how much you love hearing yourself talk.”
He takes another sip of espresso, sets the cup on the counter, and finally meets my eyes. “I don’t talk when I’m thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” I hold his gaze. “My father? Or the way you kissed me?”
“You kissed me,” he counters.
I force a groan, light and careless, even though my pulse kicks hard in my throat.
“Does everything have to be a competition? Fine. We kissed each other in equal measure. Don’t worry, Kingston, I won’t cry or throw another glass because you want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I’m not pretending,” he says, his eyes snapping to mine. “I’m processing a few things.”
The words hang in the space between us like a wire stretched taut.
I stare at him, thrown off-balance for the second time in twelve hours, because he just told me the truth. And coming from this guy, that’s rarer than unicorns.
Something twists low in my stomach. A curl of curiosity. Maybe something worse.
Kingston lifts his espresso again but doesn’t drink. He just watches me over the rim, gaze steady and dark.
“I don’t do distractions, Livvie. Or complications. And you, wife, are both.”
His voice is low, his tone neutral, but there’s something buried in the way he says it, like maybe it’s a confession.
“And yet,” I murmur, “you kissed me anyway.”
“We kissed each other,” he counters, his voice darker now.
“Sure,” I say, lips curling into a smirk. “But you started it. And we both know if Bronx hadn’t interrupted, you would have taken it further.”
His jaw flexes, the tension rippling across his cheek like a current.
“And you would havelet me,” he points out.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Guess we’ll never find out. Although this whole post-kiss grumpy espresso goblin vibe makes me glad I didn’t suck your dick.”
That earns a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it dies as fast as it sparks.
“And you’re like sunshine and sin,” he murmurs, his voice a slow drag of gravel over silk. “All that bite, and you’re thinking about gagging on my dick. That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”
I roll my eyes, turning back to the espresso cup like it matters, trying to chase away the heat pooling low in my stomach. “Thanks for the espresso, husband. I’ll leave you to your morning routine.”
Leaning back, I slide off the barstool, ready to leave, but before I can take two steps, his deep voice slips over my shoulder. “My silence isn’t distance.”
