He presses one last, hard kiss to my lips before forcing some space between us.“Coffee?”he suggests, his tone softening as he visibly reins himself in.“I’ll shower quickly and meet you in the kitchen.”
Matthew reaches out and takes my hand, his warm fingers lacing through mine.He leads me up the basement stairs and back into the sunlit calm of the main floor.
“I won’t be long,” he says, letting go of my hand, but his eyes hold me for a moment longer, a lingering caress.
I can only nod, a smile on my face.I watch him take the stairs two at a time before I turn to the kitchen, my whole body still humming with a vibrant, joyful energy.
Sunlight streams into the vast space, glinting off the polished chrome and warming the grey-veined granite.With an ease that feels second nature, I fill the electric kettle and flick it on.I retrieve the French press, his favorite dark roast, and two ceramic mugs.The shower running in the distance is the only other sound.The domesticity of it all makes my heart feel impossibly full.
The kettle clicks off.
I measure the coarse grounds, pour the hot water over them, stirring once before setting the lid in place.As the coffee steeps, I lean back against the counter and let out a soft, contented sigh.
Yesterday, my world was a cramped office.Today, I’m standing in this beautiful home, making coffee for a man who has captured my heart.Who is showering just a floor above me.
When the rich, dark brew has steeped to perfection, I slowly press the plunger down.The fragrant liquid separates from the grounds.I pour the coffee into the two mugs and take a sip from mine, turning to look out the large window at the sun-drenched garden.A subtle shift in the air, a fresh scent of soap, is my only warning before his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back against his chest.
“Mmm… smells great,” he murmurs, his warm breath against my ear.
A happy sigh escapes me as I lean back into his embrace.I rest my cheek against his jaw as he nuzzles my hair, his arms tightening a fraction.
“I poured you some,” I whisper.
He hums his approval, releases me, and retrieves his mug.“Come sit with me.”He nods toward the round kitchen table.
Mug in hand, I follow him.The chairs scrape softly as we sit across from each other.The morning sun streams between us, illuminating the steam rising from our coffee.He holds the warm ceramic between his hands, his gaze searching my face with a tender intensity.
“Did you sleep well?”he asks.
“Best sleep I’ve had in a while,” I confess.“Thank you.”
A relieved, gentle smile touches his lips.He nods, taking a slow sip, his eyes holding mine over the rim of his mug.He sets it down, his expression turning more serious.
“When we were in your office yesterday,” he begins softly, “you said you could no longer tell the difference.”
The memory flickers in my eyes, a shadow of that shame.His gaze softens with empathy.
“I’ve been thinking about that.”He rises just enough to slide his chair closer, until our knees are touching.
My brow furrows slightly as he leans forward.He places his arm on the table, palm flat near my hand, but doesn’t touch me.“What James did,” he says, his eyes clear and steady, “that wasn’t support, Amy.He didn’t invest in you; he bought you.He used his money to create leverage.To make you dependent.”He pauses.“That’s not support.That’s a cage.”
He straightens, slips his hand into the pocket of his sweatpants, and pulls out a small white envelope.He places it on the table.
“This,” he says, nudging it forward, “is the opposite.This is freedom.”
My eyes drop to the name written across the front:
Arella Warren
My gaze lifts to his, my confusion plain.“Matt, what—”
“Open it.”
My hand trembles as I pick up the envelope.I slide a finger under the flap and pull out a folded check.
As I unfold it, my mind struggles to process what I’m seeing.
His name,Matthew Warren, is in the top left corner, his address printed neatly beneath.
