His mouth twitches like he wants to smile and doesn’t trust himself to.
“How’s your head?”
I test it, because of course he asks like he’s been waiting for the answer. “Not trying to kill me anymore.”
He nods once, like that’s the report he needed to hear to keep breathing normally.
He holds the mug out—not too close. Not demanding. Offering.
“Coffee,” he says. “Or I can get you water. Or tea. Mark bought lemon tea like he was planning for the apocalypse.”
I blink. “Mark bought lemon tea.”
“He did.”
“That feels… wrong.”
“Everything about last night felt wrong,” he says quietly.
The words land heavier than the tone.
My stomach tightens in a different way this time. Not nausea. Not drugged confusion.
Anger.
A clean, bright edge of it.
Because he’s right. Because it was wrong. Because someone decided my body was a thing that could be altered without my permission and then probably slept like a baby afterward.
I inhale slowly, forcing the anger to sit down in the corner of my mind where it belongs until I can do something useful with it.
“I’ll take water,” I say, voice too steady.
Derek’s gaze sharpens—like he feels the anger too. Like he understands it.
“Okay,” he says simply.
He turns, disappears toward the kitchen.
Still not hovering.
Just… responding.
I sit there for a second, staring at my hands in my lap. My nails are still painted. My rings are gone. No—wait. They’re on the coffee table, lined up neatly beside my clutch like someone took them off carefully and thought, She’ll want these back exactly as they were.
My chest tightens.
There’s something intimate about someone keeping your small things safe. About being handled without being taken.
Derek returns with a bottle of water and a glass, sets both down on the coffee table within my reach.
He doesn’t sit.
He leans against the edge of the doorway instead, shoulders relaxed but not casual. Like he’s giving me space with one hand and keeping the other ready in case I sway.
I hate that it makes me feel… held.
“Do you remember anything?” he asks.
