Casual. Easy.
Like this was normal. Like I woke up in his bed every day, like the last eight years hadn't happened, like we were still the people we used to be.
"I'm so sorry." The words tumbled out. "I didn't mean to fall asleep, I should have?—"
"Don't worry about it." He slid a mug across the counter toward me. Coffee, pale with oat milk, steam curling up from the surface. "You looked like you needed the rest."
He set a plate in front of me. "Eat."
Toast. Barely there butter. Strawberry jam.
The same breakfast I'd made for myself a thousand times in our old apartment, back when we were young and in love, and the future seemed like something we could hold in our hands.
I took a bite. Chewed. Tried not to think about how he remembered.
"Do you need to go to work today?"
The question was casual. Too casual.
He wasn't looking at me when he asked it, his attention fixed on his own coffee like it required intense concentration.
"I have a meeting with my editor. Marianne." I checked my phone. "I need to update her on the piece. We're getting close to having enough to publish."
"Right. Yeah, of course." He nodded, still not quite meeting my eyes. "That's good. That's important."
Something flickered across his face. Disappointment, maybe. Like he'd been hoping for a different answer. Like he'd wanted me to sayno, I'm free, I can stay.
I brushed the thought away.
We ate in comfortable silence. Him leaning against the counter, me perched on the barstool, morning light slanting through his kitchen window.
It felt domestic in a way that made my chest ache. Like a glimpse of a life we had, once.
I finished the last bite of toast and drank my coffee. "I should go. I need to shower and change before the meeting. Marianne will have questions if I show up looking like I slept in my clothes."
"You did sleep in your clothes."
"She doesn't need to know that."
The ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Your secret's safe with me."
I grabbed my bag, my laptop, and the folder of evidence we'd been poring over last night.
At the door, I paused. Turned back.
He was watching me. That steady gaze, those gray-blue eyes that saw too much.
"Thank you," I said. "For the bed. And the breakfast."
"Anytime, Sloane."
He said it like he meant it. Likeanytimewas an offer, not just a pleasantry.
I left before I could think too hard about that.
Marianne Charlton looked up when I knocked on her office door.
"You're late," she said, though I wasn't. "Sit. Talk."
