Our fingers brush when I take it, and that same awareness from last night sparks between us. His eyes hold mine for a beat too long before he clears his throat and turns back to the counter.
"I didn't know how you take it," he says. "So I left it black."
"Sugar. Lots of sugar." I grab the spoon and the mug and pour in the sugar, grateful for something to do with my hands. "How'd you sleep?"
"Fine." He leans against the counter, cradling his own mug. "Your couch is more comfortable than half the places I've slept."
"Special ops?"
"Special ops," he confirms with a small smile. "Compared to sleeping on the ground in full gear, your couch is the Ritz."
I laugh, and it feels good. Normal. Like the world hasn't tilted sideways in the past forty-eight hours.
We stand there in my tiny kitchen, drinking coffee in comfortable silence, and it hits me how easy this feels. How natural. Kevin in my space, morning light filtering through the curtains, the quiet intimacy of sharing coffee before the day starts.
It should feel weird. Invasive, even.
Instead, it feels like coming home.
"So," Kevin says after a moment, his voice careful. "We need to head to the station today. Give our official statement about last night."
Reality crashes back in, cold and sharp. "Right."
"Martinez said he'd take them this morning. Shouldn't take long." He watches me over the rim of his mug. "I'll be with you the whole time."
"You don't have to—"
"Steph." He set his mug down, stepping closer. "I'm not leaving you to deal with this alone. Not happening."
The certainty in his voice makes my throat tight. "Okay."
"Okay." His mouth tips up at one corner. "Now, do you want breakfast? Because I make a mean scrambled egg, but I wasn't sure if raiding your fridge crossed a line."
Despite everything, I smile. "Raid away, Officer Dawes."
***
The police station is as I remember it—fluorescent lights, worn linoleum floors, the faint smell of burnt coffee and paperwork. The last time I was here was ten months ago, filing the restraining order against Carl.
Kevin must sense my tension because his hand finds the small of my back, steady and grounding.
"You're okay," he murmurs. "I've got you."
Martinez is waiting for us in one of the interview rooms, looking alert despite the early hour. "Morning. Thanks for coming in."
"Of course," I say, sliding into the chair across from him.
The statement process is straightforward but exhausting. Martinez walks me through every detail—when I first noticed the guy now known as Elliott at the bar, how many times he'dasked me out, what happened in the alley. I keep my voice steady, clinical, as if I'm telling someone else's story.
Kevin gives his statement separately, as the witnessing officer. Through the window, I can see him in the adjacent room, his expression calm and professional as he walks Martinez's partner through what he saw.
When we're done, Martinez closes his notebook. "Elliott posted bail an hour ago."
My stomach drops. "He's out?"
"Yeah. The judge set conditions—he's not allowed within five hundred feet of you or The Lucky Tap. Violates that, he goes right back in." Martinez's expression is sympathetic. "I know it's not ideal, but given his clean record and the fact that he's got money, bail was expected."
"Right." I force myself to breathe. "Okay."
