The sun from the window dusts his shoulders, and my mouth waters. Watching him move with ease, doing something so domestic, makes my stomach clench.
He turns slightly when he hears me, unsurprised by my presence.
His eyes are guarded, but his dark blonde hair is slightly tousled, giving him an almost relaxed appearance despite his tough exterior.
I watch him fight with his feelings for me, and I protect myself by doing the same. When will we finally end this battle? When will I stop hating myself for loving what he does to my body?
I want to run across the kitchen to him. The war I see in his eyes is telling me he wants to do the same. Neither of us moves.
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Once I straighten my back, I find my bravery, “You’re making coffee?”
He nods once, glancing down at the espresso machine. “Don’t look so shocked.”
“I thought you didn’t know how to do…domestic things.”
He shrugs. “I know how. I just don’t have to. Usually.”
I glance around. Still no one. Not even that quiet housekeeper who floats in and out like a ghost. “Where is everyone?”
“They’re off for the morning,” he says it casually, pouring a shot of espresso into a porcelain cup.
I blink. “Why?” His calm focus and nonchalant movements are tilting my world; his actions are shoving him into an unfamiliar category in my mind.
I’ve never seen Hayden truly tender, and this isn’t that. He’s focused, methodical, and caring for me as though he were an animal. Deep inside his actions, his care in preparing coffee, and his soft words, I see a glimmer of possibly more. It’s safer if I convince myself that it’s just hopeful thinking.
He looks at me then—fully. Like he’s taking inventory of how I’m standing, how I’m holding his robe closed at the collar, how sore I am without me even saying it.
“Do you ever shut up?” he asks simply.
I barely bristle, used to his barbs that cover up feelings much deeper than either of us is ready to admit.
He walks over and presses a soft kiss to my forehead and hands me the cup, and I take it before I think to question anything else. His fingers graze mine, and it sends a current straight through me.
I take a sip, and his eyes stay on me, steady, unreadable.
The coffee is perfect.
"You drugged me,” I say, quiet but precise.
“Technically, you drugged yourself,” he replies.
My throat tightens, but I don’t argue. I don’t hand the cup back. I keep drinking.
Because the truth is, I did let go. And part of me wants to fall even deeper.
“I’m not one of your pliable little toys, Hayden.”
He leans in, voice a low rasp. “No. You’re better.”
I hate how that makes me feel. Seen. Chosen. Like, I’m the only one who gets this version of him when we have no clarity between us of whatthisreally is.
“You sent the staff away just to impress me with your kitchen skills?”
“I wanted my wife to wake up to me,” he says, “not the kitchen staff.”
“And you didn’t think I’d want, I don’t know…a little explanation this morning of what myhusbanddid to me?”
