I slip out of bed, ease my door open. From here, I can see straight into the living room, which is also the kitchen, which is basically my entire apartment. Kai stands by the window, back to me, looking out at the sliver of city visible between buildings.
The shirt stretches across his shoulders, the fabric pulled so tight I can see every line of muscle in his back. The hem barelyreaches his hips. On me, it hits mid-thigh. On him, it looks obscene.
He turns, and the view from the front is worse. Or better. Definitely worse.
“Morning.” His voice is rough with sleep, but he's smiling. A real smile, soft at the edges.
“Morning.” I'm suddenly aware of my thin sleep shirt, the state of my hair. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.” He rolls his shoulder, wincing. “Worth it.”
I don't ask what was worth it. After last night, I have a better idea than I want to.
“Hungry?”
He considers it like it's a complicated question. “Starving, actually.”
“I can make eggs. Omelette okay?”
Something shifts in his expression. “Yeah. That sounds... yeah.”
I move to the kitchen, grateful for something to do with my hands. The fridge offers limited options. Eggs, some cheddar, a few slices of ham, half an onion.
“Any preferences?” I call over my shoulder. “Allergies?”
“No onions.”
I turn, raising an eyebrow. “Allergic?”
“No.” He shifts, looking almost embarrassed. “I just don't like the texture. The way they get all...” He makes a vague gesture.
“Slimy?”
“Yeah. That.”
I bite back a smile.
“No onions,” I say.
The omelette comes together easily. Ham, cheese, salt and pepper. I fold it the way my mother taught me, golden on theoutside, fluffy within. The coffee is instant. I refuse to apologize for it.
Kai moves to the table, taking in the space in daylight. The unpacked boxes in the corner. My sketches scattered across the coffee table. Through my open bedroom door, the cheap prints of famous paintings I hung to make the place feel like home.
He doesn't comment on any of it. Just settles into the chair and accepts the plate.
“Thank you.” He says it quietly, like he means more than the food.
He takes a bite and closes his eyes.
“This is really good.”
I laugh. “It's just eggs.”
“No, I mean it.” He takes another bite, sets down his fork. “Emma, this is the first home-cooked meal I've had. Unless frozen pizza counts, and that's the extent of Ethan's culinary skills.”
He says it lightly, almost joking. I hear what's underneath. A childhood with staff instead of parents in the kitchen. An adulthood of restaurants and takeout. All that money, and no one ever made him eggs.
“Frozen pizza absolutely does not count.”
