“Some,” he says.
“That’s not an answer,” I say.
He huffs. “Enough.”
I roll my eyes and lean on the doorframe. “You know, you’re allowed to be human in this time zone. It’s not a crime to do more than blink.”
He shifts in the chair and then stands, turning to fold the blanket and revealing…everything. I suck in a breath. His T-shirt delineates every dip and plane of his muscled torso and back, and his powerful thighs and ass are outlined by a pair of sweatpants instead of jeans.
Gray sweatpants, and sweet saint Mary he looks good in them. I bite my fist.
“You okay?” he asks, ignoring my commentary about his blinking habits.
“No! All good.”
He narrows his eyes, lifting his arms in a stretch. The T-shirt lifts along with them. “You sure? No weird messages? Nightmares?”
“Nope. I shut Nightjar down last night and went straight to bed,” I say. “Phone’s on do-not-disturb except for you guys. No nightmares. Just hooves.”
His brow furrows. “Hooves?”
“The horses,” I say. “One of them woke me up. That’s why I’m invading your perimeter.”
He rubs a hand over his face, scrubbing sleep from his jaw. “Invade the kitchen next,” he says. “You need to eat something before your brain gets back on the internet.”
“You’re very bossy in the morning,” I tell him.
“I’m the same as I was last night,” he says.
There’s a tiny beat there. A shared flicker of memory. His hand on mine. My fingers on his arm.
I look away first.
“Savvi’s probably already up,” I say. “If I time this right, I can get coffee before Saoirse wakes up and demands I make a blanket fort.”
He actually smiles at that. Just a little. It’s unfair, how much it changes his whole face.
“I’ll walk you down,” he says.
“You don’t have to walk me to the kitchen,” I protest, backing away a step. “This isn’t a horror movie. The fridge isn’t going to leap out and attack me.”
“Kitchen has exterior doors,” he says, standing. He’s back in full giant mode now, awake and solid. “Windows. Sightlines. You want coffee? I escort you past the glass. Non-negotiable.”
“You’re so fucking paranoid,” I say.
“And yet you keep following me,” he says.
I hate that he has a point.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if Savvi yells at you for being underfoot, I’m not helping.”
Savvidoesnotyellat him. Savvi hands him a mug of coffee before I even get one, which I find personally offensive.
“I see where I stand in your affections,” I tell her.
“You stand somewhere between Miss Cotton and the horses,” she says. “Mr. Kelly is company. Company gets coffee first. You get seconds.”
“I’m telling Brodie you said that,” I say.
