My blouse is draped over his dresser. My phone waits in silence on the nightstand, full of emails and expectations I'm not ready to face. The world is still there, waiting. But for now—just for this moment—it hasn't found me yet.
I study Garrett's sleeping face, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead.
The snow is still falling, painting the city in stillness. Our snow globe. We're still inside it.
My greatest fear used to be getting fired. Now, it's leaving this bed. Now, it's going back to a world where we pretend last night didn't change everything.
I drift back to sleep, and when I wake again, the quality of light has shifted to something warmer. The storm still rages outside, but it feels distant now—a white curtain drawn around our private world.
The bed beside me is empty, but I can hear quiet sounds from the kitchen. The soft clink of ceramic. The whisper of something being stirred. I stretch beneath the sheets, every muscle loose and languid in a way I can't remember feeling in years.
This is what peace feels like.
I slip from bed and find one of his dress shirts hanging over a chair—soft cotton that carries traces of his scent. It falls to mid-thigh on me, and I roll the sleeves to my elbows before padding barefoot toward the kitchen.
Garrett stands at the stove, wearing nothing but pajama pants that hang low on his hips. His dark hair is mussed from sleep, and there's something so fundamentally different about him in this moment. The careful control he wears like armor has been set aside, revealing something softer underneath. He's humming—actually humming—as he works.
"Good morning," I say quietly, not wanting to shatter the spell.
He turns, and his face lights up when he sees me. Not the practiced smile of his public persona, but something open and unguarded that makes me want to pull him back into bed.
"Good morning, beautiful." His voice is rough with sleep, intimate in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly. "Coffee's almost ready."
He reaches for a mug from the cabinet, movements economical and sure. "I'm making pancakes. Sourdough ones—figured I should put that starter to good use."
I lean against the counter, watching him work. There's something hypnotic about his competence here, the way he moves through his space with quiet confidence. This is Garrett, not the carefully controlled captain the media sees. The man who reads poetry and nurtures living things and makes pancakes from scratch on snowy mornings.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He hands me the coffee, and when our fingers brush, that familiar spark shoots up my arm. "Besides, I've been wanting to cook for you."
The pancake batter is pale gold and full of bubbles. He ladles it onto the griddle with practiced ease, and the kitchen fills with the smell of something wholesome and homemade.
"This is nice," I murmur, settling onto one of the barstools at his counter. "Domestic."
"Dangerous word," he says, but he's smiling. "Might give a guy ideas."
"What kind of ideas?"
He flips a pancake with a quick flick of his wrist. "The kind where I imagine doing this every morning. Where I pictureyou in my kitchen, wearing my shirt, looking exactly like you do right now."
My breath catches. The casual intimacy of his words, the easy way he talks about a future that includes both of us, makes something flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with hope.
"Your pancakes smell incredible," I say, breathing in the complex, yeasty aroma that fills his kitchen. "How long have you had it?"
"Years now." He flips another pancake with practiced ease. "My grandmother gave me hers when I got drafted. Said it would keep me grounded, having something that needed daily attention." He pauses, spatula poised above the griddle. "Probably sounds ridiculous."
"Not at all." I take another sip of coffee, watching the way morning light catches in his hair. "It's like... continuity. Something constant when everything else changes."
He glances at me, something soft flickering in his expression. "Yeah. Exactly like that."
The comfortable quiet settles between us again, filled only with the soft bubble of batter on the griddle and the storm outside. I find myself studying his profile as he works—the strong line of his jaw, the way his shoulders move beneath bare skin. Last night feels both distant and immediate, like a dream that left physical traces on my heart.
"I should probably check my phone," I murmur, though I make no move to do so.
"Probably." He plates the pancakes—perfect golden circles that smell like heaven. "But the world can wait a few more minutes."
He sets the plate in front of me, along with real maple syrup warmed in a small pitcher. The first bite is extraordinary—tangy and complex, with a texture that speaks of patience and care.
