My eyes burned, which was annoying as hell. I blinked hard and pretended it was the light.
Michael pressed a slow kiss to my temple, then settled back against me like he’d decided this was where he belonged.
18
EVERYTHING CHANGED
MICHAEL
For half a second, I forgot everything. Forgot where I was, forgot the storm that had raged through the night, forgot the way Daniel had looked at me like I was something precious and terrifying all at once.
Then I remembered all of it.
The bed beside me was empty, sheets still warm but cooling. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the man I'd been yesterday with the one lying naked in Daniel Callahan's bed, skin still marked with his teeth, body still humming with the aftermath of everything we'd done.
The house creaked around me, settling into morning with sounds that felt lived-in. Footsteps downstairs. The distant clatter of dishes. Water running through old pipes. It hurt in a way I hadn't expected, this domesticity, because it reminded me of other mornings in another house with another person who'd loved me enough to let me sleep while they made coffee.
The bedroom door opened quietly, and Daniel stepped through carrying two mugs of coffee. He'd pulled on jeans butnothing else, and the morning light caught the silver threading through his dark hair, the lines etched around his eyes. He looked tired. He looked beautiful. He looked at me like he still couldn't quite believe I was real.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep and something deeper.
“Morning.” I pushed myself up against the headboard, took the mug he offered. Our fingers brushed, and the simple contact sent warmth spiraling through my chest. “You're up early.”
“Habit. Alpha thing.” He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch but not quite touching. “Can't sleep past dawn even when I want to.”
I sipped the coffee. It was exactly how I liked it, and I didn't remember telling him that. “How long have you been awake?”
“A while.” His eyes traced the line of my collarbone, paused on the mark he'd left there. Something possessive flickered across his face, there and gone. “I made breakfast. Eggs, bacon. Nothing fancy.”
“You cook?”
His mouth curved. “I have two functioning hands and a stove. Don't expect miracles.”
He let me change into borrowed clothes, then took my hand and guided me downstairs to the kitchen.
It smelled like coffee and bacon and something else I couldn't name, something green and wild that clung to the corners of the room like the forest had pressed itself against the windows and left its scent behind.
Daniel moved through the space with easy confidence, plating eggs, buttering toast with the focused attention he probably gave to everything. I sat at the kitchen table and watched him, still trying to process that this was real.
The house felt different in daylight. Last night it had been all shadows and storm, but now I could see the details. Pack photoson the walls, decades of history frozen in frames. A coat rack by the door heavy with jackets in varying sizes. Boots lined up in neat rows. Evidence of family, of belonging, of a life built around protecting people who depended on you.
“You're staring,” Daniel said without turning around.
“Thinking.”
“About what?”
About how your kitchen feels like home even though I've barely been in it. About how you move through this space like feeding someone is a kind of vow you don't say out loud. About how terrifying it is to want this when I've already lost everything once.
“How you knew I take my coffee black with one sugar,” I said instead.
“I pay attention.” He brought two plates to the table, set one in front of me. “Eat.”
It wasn't romance. It was practical, grounding, the kind of care that showed up in actions instead of words. I picked up my fork and ate, and the food was simple but good, and Daniel watched me like he needed to make sure I actually swallowed before he'd relax.
“This is good,” I said.
“It's eggs.”
