I wakebefore the sun fully rises, and for a second I don’t move because she’s still curled against me, breathing slow and even. Her hand is fisted loosely in my shirt like she fell asleep afraid I’d disappear, and I ease my arm out from under her carefully so I don’t wake her. She shifts once and settles, and when the blanket slips, I see the faint yellowing along her wrist where the rope bit in. The bruises are still there, shadowing her skin in dull purples and greens, but they’re starting to turn, starting to heal. It’s progress, even if it’s slow.
I pull the blanket higher over her shoulder and sit there for another second, studying the fading marks like I can will them gone faster. Eighteen days left their imprint on her, and part of me hates that I didn’t get there sooner. But she’s here now, and she’s breathing steady in my bed, and that’s what matters.
I slide out carefully and stand, pausing at the doorway to look back at her. In the early gray light she looks smaller somehow, the hard edges of survival softened by sleep. I leave the door cracked just enough to hear her if she calls out, then head for the bathroom.
The mirror catches me under unforgiving light while I splash water over my face and brush my teeth. I pull on a T-shirt and drag a hand through my hair, rolling my shoulders once before stepping into the kitchen. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels earned after a night like that.
I start the coffee first and let the smell fill the space while I grab eggs from the fridge and set a pan on the stove. The crack of shells and the low sizzle of butter anchor me, something normaland steady in a situation that isn’t. If Viktor Dragunov is landing in this country today, I’ll deal with him when he gets here. But when she wakes up, she’s waking to coffee and breakfast, not to fear. And the next time she looks down at her arms, those bruises will be a little lighter than they were yesterday.
“Good morning,” she says as she walks into the kitchen, her voice still thick with sleep and her blonde hair mussed from the pillow, strands falling in soft disarray around her face. Her green eyes are heavy-lidded and unfocused at first, still caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, but even like that they’re bright. Too bright for someone who went through what she did.
I turn from the stove and the words stick for a second.
She looks… soft. Sleep-rumpled. Barefoot in one of my shirts that hangs loose on her frame and a pair of sweats that are way too big. She looks fragile and strong at the same time, beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with perfection and everything to do with survival.
“Morning,” I manage, reaching for another mug. “Coffee?”
“Please,” she says, rubbing at one eye. “I’m going to need it if I’m going to survive today.” She laughs softly, but there’s something underneath it, something resigned that I don’t miss.
“How do you take it?” I ask, moving toward the counter. “I’ve got creamer, milk, and sugar.”
Her eyes lift and spark just a little. “You have creamer?” she asks, grinning. “I figured you’d drink it black.”
“I do,” I reply, quirking a brow. “The creamer’s for my mother when she visits.”
“She must visit often if you keep creamer in the house just for her,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter, still half wrapped in sleep.
“She does. She lives five minutes down the road and stops in a few times a week whether I invite her or not.”
That earns me a softer smile, one that smooths some of the tension from her face. “I’ll take creamer too,” she says. “Thank you.”
I pour the coffee and then the creamer, watching the dark turn light as it swirls. I glance up at her to see when to stop, but she just motions for me to keep going.
I shake my head slightly. “You want a little coffee with your creamer?”
She smiles, and even with the fading bruises and the exhaustion she’s carrying, it’s bright enough to change the room. “The man gets it.”
I laugh and hand her the mug. She wraps both hands around it and takes a careful sip, a soft sound slips out of her before she can stop it. “Good coffee,” she says, eyes closing for a second. When she opens them she looks at what I'm doing at the stove. “That smells wonderful. Do you need any help?”
I shake my head and turn back to the stove. “Go have a seat. It’s almost ready.”
She nods and moves to the table without question, coffee cradled in her hands.
I finish up the eggs and flip them cleanly onto two plates, then pop the toast and butter it before carrying everything to thetable. She’s sitting straight-backed, even half asleep, green eyes watching me.
I set the plate in front of her. “Eat.”
She gives me a faint smile and reaches for her fork.
I sit across from her, and for a second I wonder how many mornings of her life have looked like this, except bigger tables, heavier expectations, and someone else deciding her future between bites.
I’m about to take a bite of my eggs when there’s a knock at the back door.
Not tentative. Not cautious.
Two firm raps and then the handle jiggles like the knock was just a courtesy.
I close my eyes for half a second.
