For a moment—just a moment—she let herself imagine it differently.
Waking up in his bed instead of the guest room. His arm heavy around her waist. Morning light catching in his hair. The lazy, unhurried intimacy of a day with nowhere to be.
Coffee in his kitchen. Her mug next to his. Toast burning because they'd gotten distracted.
A place in his life.
Grace opened her eyes and reached for the shampoo.
That was the last time she would let herself imagine what could have been with Luke Bennett.
She’d asked. And he’d answered.
When she finally emerged fromthe bathroom—dressed, hair damp—her armor was back in place.
Luke was in the kitchen. He was standing at the counter in jeans and a t-shirt, hair still damp from his own shower, pouring coffee into two mugs.
Grace stopped in the doorway.
Luke turned, and their eyes met.
"Morning," he said quietly.
"Morning.”
He slid the mug across the counter toward her.
Grace wrapped both hands around it and took a sip.
Perfect.
Of course it was.
"Thank you," she said.
Luke nodded. “You should eat something. I can do eggs. Or just toast.”
“I’m not that hungry,” she admitted.
He frowned and reached for the bread anyway, sliding two slices into the toaster. “Toast,” he said. “You can’t run on coffee.”
The quiet certainty in his voice did something strange to her chest.
The toaster clicked down. The small domestic sound filled the silence.
She leaned back against the counter, watching him move around his kitchen like he belonged there. Like there was space for someone else in it.
The toast popped up. He buttered both slices without asking, then hesitated—glanced at her.
“Jam?” he asked.
She almost laughed. “Plain’s fine.”
He set a plate in front of her.
Silence settled between them—not hostile, just careful. Like they were both afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Grace took another sip of coffee and looked around the kitchen properly.
