And yet here you are, melting over a toothbrush.
I rinse, spit, and study my reflection in the mirror. I look... good, actually. Better than I expected. There's a glow to my skin that wasn't there yesterday—the kind of satisfied radiance that comes from being thoroughly, comprehensivelyhandled. My hair is a disaster, but in a sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed way rather than a concerning, possibly-rabid-animal way.
I think about getting dressed and frown. The dress from last night is crumpled on the floor wherever it landed during our first round. I should find it but then I immediately dismiss the idea of putting it back on. The lace is probably wrinkled beyond repair, there's definitely a small tear near the hem from whenthings got... enthusiastic, and the entire garment smells like a combination of my perfume, Tank's cologne, and activities that don't need to be broadcast to the world.
Plus, my underwear is clearly done for. The scent-protecting thongs gave their life in service last night, and I will honor their sacrifice by never speaking of their demise again.
I need something else to wear. Something that doesn't scream "walk of shame" or "I had vigorous sex in a stranger's bathroom."
The bedroom offers options. Tank's closet is a marvel of organization—shirts hung by color, pants folded with military precision, drawers labeled with the kind of system that suggests either OCD or former military service. Probably both. I bypass the dress shirts and slacks in favor of the more casual section, where a collection of soft cotton t-shirts is folded in neat stacks.
I pause to appreciate the sheer variety. Band tees from concerts that look like they were actually attended rather than bought ironically. Plain basics in every color of the neutral spectrum. A few with small logos that probably cost more than my car payment despite their understated appearance.
The closet smells like him. That devastating smoked leather and saffron combination has soaked into every fiber of fabric in here. It's overwhelming in the best way—like being wrapped in a blanket made of his scent.
I grab one at random—black, simple, probably designer despite its understated appearance—and pull it over my head.
It'senormouson me.
The hem falls to mid-thigh, completely covering everything that needs covering and then some. The shoulder seams hit somewhere around my biceps. The neck hole is wide enough that it keeps slipping off one shoulder, exposing my collarbone in a way that's either sexy or sloppy depending on your perspective.
His scent envelops me completely now—every breath I take fills my lungs with smoked leather and warmth. I could get used to this. I could get dangerously, irresponsibly used to walking around smelling like him.
I check my reflection again and grin in triumph.
Perfect. I technically look like a tomboy who raided her boyfriend's closet, but I don't mind as long as I'm comfortable. The oversized aesthetic works. Plus, going commando gives me a nice breeze situation happening, and if I'm being optimistic—do I dare hope for one more round before I leave?
Fuck yeah, I dare.
I pad barefoot out of the bedroom, trying to be quiet as I make my way through the house. The hardwood floors are cool beneath my feet, a pleasant contrast to the warmth of Tank's bed. Morning light is filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the great room, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. It's later than I thought—probably close to nine, based on the angle of the sun.
Sasha is sprawled across his massive dog bed, watching me with those intelligent amber eyes. His tail thumps once—a greeting—but he doesn't get up. Just observes, like a furry sentinel keeping track of movements in his domain.
"Good morning, handsome," I whisper, and his tail thumps again. "Stay there. I'm just going to make some food. You'll get some too, don't worry."
The kitchen calls to me like a siren song. I wonder if I should make him breakfast before I go. Would that be overbearing? Presumptuous? The kind of clingy behavior that sends Alpha's running for the hills?
Or would it be a nice gesture? A thank-you for an incredible night? A way to end things on a positive note rather than just... disappearing?
I debate with myself as I survey the contents of his fridge. There's not much—clearly he doesn't cook often, or he's due for a grocery run. But I spot eggs, a package of bacon that's still within its use-by date, and a box of pancake mix in the pantry that looks promising.
I can work with this. I've made incredible meals out of far less.
The coffee pot is my first priority—because I am not a functional human being without caffeine, and also because the ritual of making coffee centers me. I find a bag of whole beans in the freezer (properly stored, I note with approval), a grinder tucked into a corner of the counter, and a French press that looks like it's never been used.
Rich people and their fancy coffee equipment they don't know how to operate. Classic.
I set the coffee to brew and pull up my phone, scrolling through my music library until I find something suitable for morning cooking. Something upbeat but not aggressive. Something that matches the unexpected lightness I'm feeling despite knowing this is temporary.
The first notes of a pop song fill the kitchen, and I find myself swaying to the rhythm as I crack eggs into a bowl. This is my element. Not the sex—although that was certainly enjoyable—butthis. Creating something. Transforming raw ingredients into a meal. The simple alchemy of heat and timing and intuition that turns chaos into sustenance.
I whisk the eggs with a fork, adding a splash of milk and a pinch of salt the way my grandmother taught me. The bacon goes into a cold pan—the only proper way to cook it, fight me—and I turn the heat to medium-low, letting it render slowly while I mix the pancake batter.
The pancake mix is basic—just-add-water variety—but I doctor it up anyway. A little extra vanilla extract. A pinch ofcinnamon. A tablespoon of melted butter that I find in a dish on the counter. It's a habit born from years of making do with limited ingredients, of turning cheap basics into something worth eating.
Cooking for someone else feels different than cooking for myself. There's intention in it. Care. The desire to create something good, something that will bring pleasure, something that says "thank you for an incredible night" without using words.
The music shifts to something with more bass, and I'm fully dancing now. Hip-swaying, shoulder-shimming, spatula-as-microphone dancing. The kind of ridiculous movement that would mortify me if anyone were watching but feels absolutely necessary when I'm alone in a kitchen with good music and the promise of breakfast.
