Inside, the line moves slow. Morning chatter hums around us. I’m about to tell him what I want when he shifts behind me, pulling me back gently until I’m flush against him. His tattooed arms slide around my waist, locking me in place. He’s warm and solid, every inch of him pressed close. I can feel his breath against my neck a second before his lips find it.
“God, you look good,” he murmurs, voice a low growl only I can hear. “We should skip breakfast, go home instead.”
My breath catches.
“Trey,” I hiss, trying to sound firm, but it comes out breathless. He only hums, brushing lazy kisses along the curve of my neck. The girl behind the till gasps, one hand flying to her chest as recognition dawns on her face. Trey doesn’t even lift his head.
“Whatever my wife wants,” he says, voice muffled against my skin. “I’ll have a coffee, black, and a breakfast bagel please.”
Still red and trying to recover my composure, I manage, “I’ll have the same, please.”
The girl nods quickly, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Trey finally lifts his head, utterly unbothered, flashing her a grin that could probably power the whole city. He presses a kiss to my temple, voice low enough that only I can hear.
“Relax, Dove. It’s Just breakfast.”
“Breakfast doesn’t usually come with an audience,” I whisper, still flustered. He chuckles, handing over a card.
“Get used to it, baby. World’s gonna know who you are now.”
I look up at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and something that feels dangerously like falling. “Who is that, exactly?”
He smirks, leaning close again, his breath warm against my ear. “Mine.”
The plates hit the table with a soft clatter—halo rings, filled with meats and egg, a red bottle is pushed forward.
“Yes, I love this place’s hot sauce.” Trey beams, “Thank you!” He thanks the waitress with that lazy charm that seems to come so naturally to him. His voice is rough from sleep and cigarettes, and it does something to my pulse every time he speaks. He doesn’t touch his food right away. Instead, he leans his elbows on the table, fingers drumming against the edge of his plate as his eyes trace over me.
“You sleep okay, baby?” I watch as he picks up the small bottle. Unscrewing the cap, he lifts the top of the bagel and sets it aside, steam curling lazily into the air.
He notices me watching and turns the bottle toward me. The label is… intense—satanic imagery, boldly namedDante’s Inferno Hot-Hot-Hot Sauce. Honestly, it makes me feel a little uneasy, the casual blasphemy glaring from the bottle.
“It’s fine—damned anyway, right, Dove?” He gives me a sly smile, holding my gaze as he flicks a few drops onto the cheese topping his bagel. The sauce seeps into the artificial-orange layer before he replaces the top half.
I try to fight a smile. Fail. It creeps across my face anyway.
“You want any?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“Fair. Might’ve made your hair redder or something,” he snorts, lifting the bagel with that goofy grin. He bites into it and groans, and I can’t help but find it endearing.
I pick up my knife and fork, cutting into my own. The savory, warm, slightly stodgy bite lights up my senses. I don’t think I’ve ever had a breakfast like this before. It’s…gorgeous. Swallowing, I watch him take a sip of his coffee and sigh in contentment.
“Sorry—so, sleep. Did you sleep alright? I kinda got distracted before you answered,” he asks, finally looking back at me.
I finish chewing, lifting a hand to cover my mouth. “Yeah. Better than I thought I would.”
His gaze darkens, a hint of mischief curling at the corner of his mouth. “You sore?”
The question hits low. My fork pauses halfway to my lips. Heat flares in my cheeks, memories flickering behind my eyes—his breath on my skin, the way he whispered my name. His expression shifts, something tender flickering beneath the wickedness.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice low enough only I can hear. “Means I didn’t dream it.” He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing the inside of my wrist—a gentle stroke that sendswarmth spiraling through me. I try to hide my smile behind my coffee cup, but he sees it—of course he does.
“Eat, baby. You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?”
He winks. “You’ll see.”
