Then I shift.
A dull ache pulls low in my hips, between my thighs. Not pain. Just a reminder. Heat creeps up my neck.
I remember.
Everything.
I turn my head.
He’s gone from the bed.
For a split second, something tightens in my chest.
Then I hear it. The low clink of ceramic. The faint hum of a kettle.
Kitchen.
I push the covers back carefully and sit up. My body protests in quiet ways, like it’s still catching up to last night. I breathe through it and stand.
There’s a sweatshirt on a chair. I pull it on. It smells like him, like the cabin, like smoke that clings to skin after the fire’s gone low. I don’t bother with anything else.
When I step into the kitchen, he’s there.
Barefoot. Jeans low on his hips. Shirtless. Back to me.
Coffee mug in one hand.
Sunlight spills through the small window over the sink, catching the scars across his shoulders. They look different in the morning. Less like warning signs. More like history.
He turns slightly, like he sensed me before I spoke.
His eyes sweep over me once. Quick. Assessing.
“You sore?” he asks.
The bluntness makes me blush.
“Yes,” I admit.
Something shifts in his mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite nothing.
“Sit,” he says.
I do.
He sets a mug in front of me. Black coffee. Strong enough to bite back. I wrap both hands around it and let the warmth seep into my fingers.
For a moment, it feels almost normal.
Like this is just morning.
Like I didn’t give myself to a man fifteen years older than me less than twelve hours ago. Like I wasn’t nearly dragged out of a club by someone who thought my no didn’t count.
Blade leans against the counter, watching me drink.
“You sleep?” he asks.
“I did.”
