I’m not any steadier.
“Bloody hell,” I whisper.
She lets out a tiny laugh—shaky, disbelieving.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “That about sums it up.”
Lucky pulls back only enough to see my face, eyes still half-lidded, cheeks flushed. She looks stunned and alive at the same time — like she’s trying to memorize what just happened while pretending she isn’t.
I clear my throat, which does absolutely nothing to steady me.
“Tea,” I manage. “Before we do something irresponsible.”
She arches a brow. “Define irresponsible.”
“Anything that feels exactly like that kiss,” I say, because honesty seems unavoidable at this point.
Her lips curve, slow and wicked and beautiful. “Then I should probably get the kettle.”
“Probably,” I echo — though my voice comes out lower than intended.
She slips past me toward the kitchen, and even that tiny bit of distance annoys me more than it should. I follow, because leaving the patio now feels… wrong.
Lucky moves toward the small coat rack by the door, shrugging out the leather jacket with a fluid, almost practiced motion. She swaps it quickly for a chunky, oversized cardigan, the kind that swallows her shoulders and arms in soft fabric.
I catch the movement just enough to notice—her left arm has a full sleeve of intricate ink, curling around her forearm, dark and alive against her pale skin. A few delicate designs peek from under the fabric of her right sleeve as well. She adjusts the cardigan, completely concealing the tattoos before I can study them properly.
I can’t help it. My brain ticks over: why hide them? A fleeting thought, curiosity, and concern mix together. But she doesn’t offer an explanation, and I don’t press. It’s hers to share when she wants to, not mine to pry.
She moves to the kitchen, tucking her hair behind one ear, still radiating that casual confidence that’s somehow impossible to ignore. I lean against the doorway, sipping the remainder of my tea, and the image of her in that oversized cardigan—tattoos hidden, warmth in every line—stays with me far longer than it should.
She moves around her kitchen with a kind of quiet, absent grace — like her body remembers how even when she doesn’t. She reaches for new mugs, then glances over her shoulder at me.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m breathing,” I reply.
“That doesn’t answer the accusation.”
“It’s not an accusation,” I shoot back. “Just an observation on your part.”
She snorts under her breath, turning away so I won’t see the smile she’s trying not to show — and failing.
The kettle clicks on, humming faintly. The world outside still smells like summer and ozone. Somehow, the whole house feels warmer than it did ten minutes ago.
She places a mug in front of me. “Chamomile good?”
“You know it is,” I say, deadpan. “You kissed me. You’ve clearly learned my preferences.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be smug.”
“I’m not. I’m charmingly factual.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Her laugh — soft, real, unguarded — hits me harder than the kiss did.
