“You sound like Rosa,” I said, leading the way downstairs.
“She’s a smart woman.”
I’d made breakfast in this space hundreds of times since moving in, always alone, always in silence except for the sounds of my own movement and whatever podcast I had playing in the background. But now Holly was perched on one of the bar stools at the island, her legs swinging slightly, and humming something under her breath while she scrolled through her phone.
It felt domestic. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the simple act of existing in the same space as another person, doing mundane things together.
I wanted this with her. Wanted it so badly it physically hurt.
Which made what was coming even more terrifying.
Holly looked up from her phone. “The power’s still out in parts of town, including mine. According to the mayor’s office, it probably won’t be fully restored until tomorrow morning.” She made a face. “Which means I’m going back to my icebox of a house unless …”
She trailed off, looking at me hopefully.
“Unless?” I prompted, though I knew exactly what she was asking. I just wanted to hear her say, out loud, that she wanted to stay.
“Unless you’d let me stay another night? I know this is moving really fast, but I promise I’m not trying to move in or anything.”
“You can stay as long as you need to,” I said immediately.
Holly smiled at me, then her expression shifted slightly. “Though I should probably go pick up some more clothes. And my toothbrush. I borrowed yours, which I realize was maybe presumptuous.”
“It wasn’t.” My mouth had been on every part of her body. “And I can drive you to get your things after breakfast.”
“After breakfast,” she agreed, then watched as I cracked eggs into a bowl. “So what are we making?”
“Omelets. I’m good at omelets. Well, I’mconsistentat omelets. Whether that makes them good is subjective.”
She laughed. “I’m sure they’ll be great.”
I worked with focused precision—heating the pan to exactly the right temperature, whisking the eggs until they were perfectly smooth, and adding a touch of butter at just the right moment to produce a soft, creamy omelet that rolled onto itself. I plated it with a sprinkle of fresh chives then slid it in front of her.
Holly cut into it with her fork, and the moment she took the first bite, her eyes fluttered closed.
“Oh my God,” she moaned, the sound low and throaty. “Luke, this is …” She shoved another bite into her mouth and made another sound that went straight to my cock despite the anxiety churning in my gut. “This is incredible. Where have you been hiding this skill?”
“It’s just eggs.” I turned back to the stove to start my own omelet, cracking two more eggs into the bowl.
“This is not ‘just eggs.’ This is a perfect French omelet. Consider yourself warned: I’m never making my own breakfast again.”
Any other time, her enthusiasm—the implication that there’d be more mornings I got a chance to feed her—would have made me the happiest asshole on the planet. But today, knowing what I was about to tell her, it just made the guilt dig deeper.
I whisked the eggs mechanically, my movements automatic while my mind spiraled.
“Luke?”
I looked up to find Holly watching me with concern.
“You’re doing it again,” she said softly. “That thing where you look like you’re trying to solve a complicated equation in your head.”
“Sorry. I just—” I set down the bowl and whisk, abandoning my own breakfast. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Wariness crept into her expression. “That … sounds ominous.”
“It’s not—” I stopped, and reconsidered my words. “Actually, it might be. I don’t know. You might … you might be angry. Or upset. Or?—”
“Luke.“ She slid off the bar stool and came around the island to stand in front of me. “You’re kind of freaking me out here. Just tell me, whatever it is.”
