Not outside the living room. Not hovering.
Just… noticing.
Then I hear it.
A soft clink of ceramic. A familiar hiss. Coffee.
Of course he drinks coffee like it’s a moral obligation.
I swing my legs slowly off the couch and set my feet on the floor. The carpet is thick. Expensive. Like everything else. My toes curl into it instinctively, grounding.
My brain tries to replay last night again—tries to test the edges of memory to see what hurts.
The bar.
The water.
The moment the music warped like someone dragged a needle across a record.
The sick, humiliating lurch of my stomach.
And then—Derek’s hand on my arm. Steady. Firm. Unflinching.
Italian leather shoes, sacrificed for the greater good.
I wince.
Then, because my life has a cruel sense of humor, my mouth curves.
I am never living that down.
A shadow crosses the threshold of the living room.
Derek appears in the doorway with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other, like he was mid-something and decided I mattered enough to stop.
He isn’t shirtless this time. Thank God.
He’s in a fitted henley—dark, sleeves pushed to his elbows—hair still slightly messed like he ran a hand through it too many times. He looks… normal.
Which on him is unfair.
His gaze lands on me and holds. Not the office look—the sharp, assessing CEO stare that makes people sit up straighter.
This is different.
This is the look of a man making sure someone is still here.
Still alive.
Still okay.
“You’re awake,” he says.
It isn’t a question. It isn’t a victory.
It’s relief disguised as neutrality.
I clear my throat. “Apparently.”
