I take a peek around my kitchen. “There are coffee grounds in the sugar bowl.”
“Those are… garnish.” He narrows his eyes at me. “How are you feeling? Must be alright if you’re in here mocking me.”
I snort, walking past him to wipe the counter. “I’m good. Might need some pain meds but nothing crazy.”
He nods stepping closer. “You look unfair in the morning.”
“Disheveled?”
“Hot,” he corrects, grabbing the hem of the hoodie like he’s checking its authenticity. “Glowy. Saintly. I hate it.”
“You’re wearing my robe.”
He glances down at himself and shrugs without shame. “It was hanging there, all soft and smug. It leapt onto me. Besides,” His eyes travel down my chest. “That’s my hoodie.”
“Touche.”
“We’re in a fight,” he tells the espresso machine.
“Let me.” I take the portafilter gently from his hand. “Did you even read the manual?”
“Real men don’t read manuals.”
“Real men admit defeat to small appliances,” I say, loading the basket with fresh grounds.
He watches me tamp, eyes intent. “You make it look… weirdly attractive.”
“Ten thousand hours,” I say. “Spent perfecting my coffee swagger.”
“Tragic. Sexy.” His voice drops to something that could turn the lights down. “Alaric?”
I keep my eyes on the machine. “Mm?”
He kisses the back of my neck, his arms looping around my waist. “Hi.”
I fail to hide the smile. I lock the portafilter, purge, hit the button. “Hi.”
He’s warm, still a little damp from his shower. His presence loosens something I hadn’t noticed bracing. The machine hums obediently this time. Golden-brown espresso spills into the cup like a small miracle.
Magnus inhales. “Smells like a hug.”
“It’s just coffee.”
“Don’t ruin my poetry.” He kisses my neck again.
He releases me, leaning against the counter. He looks at me like he’s checking whether the ground is still stable. It makes me feel reckless in a way that isn’t about speed or danger; it’s about admitting, with my mouth, that I like this. The kitchen. The nonsense. Him.
“You have plans today?” he asks, feigning nonchalance and failing adorably.
I make us both Americanos, slide one his way. “No.” I take a cautious sip. “Headed for the rink later if the team wants optional stick-handling. Otherwise free.”
He smiles into his coffee, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like a heathen and looks at me. Really looks. His confidence lives in his shoulders, his showmanship in his hands, but the truth is always in his eyes. They’re a little shy now. A little bright.
“Do you—uh.” He pauses. “Do you want to go on a date?”
The word drops between us like the puck at center ice: irrevocable and simple.
I raise my eyebrows because it buys me half a second to gather my voice. “A date?”
