I nearly drop the spatula.
He stops in the doorway, hand braced against the frame, hair tousled from sleep. There’s stubble along his jaw, and the warm early light does the unfair thing of highlighting every line of muscle on his stomach and chest.
My mouth goes dry.
His eyes track slowly—too slowly—from my face… down my body… to the hem of his shirt resting high on my thighs.
His jaw tightens and his voice sounds rough from sleep. “You’re cooking?”
“I—yeah.” I clear my throat and try to smile like my pulse isn’t sprinting. “You made me dinner the first night, so… I thought I’d make breakfast to say thank you.”
Caden steps farther in, gaze still fixed on me like he’s cataloging every detail.
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he murmurs.
“Well… I want to.” My voice softens without permission. “You’ve done a lot.”
He moves behind me, so close I feel the heat of him at my back. Not touching. But close enough that my nerves spark like live wire.
He reaches around me to grab a mug from the cabinet, and his breath brushes my neck.
My knees almost buckle.
“You smell like sleep,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “And like my shirt.”
I swallow hard and force myself to keep scrambling the eggs. “It was comfortable.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The words drop between us like a stone, sending ripples through the air. I turn slightly, meeting his eyes. And everything inside me tightens.
He looks tired. Concern still lingers in the set of his jaw, the faint shadows beneath his eyes. But something else flickers there too—something warm. Something dangerously close to wanting.
“Caden…” I whisper.
He steps closer, his hand bracing on the counter beside me.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low.
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t want to run anymore.”
I inhale sharply.
The skillet sizzles behind me, but I can’t move. Not when he’s this close, not when his eyes dip to my mouth, not when everything I spent four years trying to bury rises inside me like a tide.
“Last night scared you,” he murmurs. “You deserve someone in your corner. Someone who’s on your side.”
“I know.” My voice shakes. “I do.”
His shoulders tense—not with anger but restraint. “I meant what I said,” he adds. “You matter to me.”
My heart stutters painfully. I look away. “Caden… this can’t…”
He gently grips my chin and turns me back to him. “Yes,” he says quietly. “It can.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe I lean in. Maybe he does. All I know is that suddenly his lips brush mine—soft at first, barely there, but enough to send a shiver crashing through me.
