And something in my chest shifts in response.
She stands there with her coffee like she belongs in my mornings. “You’re staring,” she says without opening her eyes.
“Can you blame me? You’ve seen what you look like.”
She smirks faintly into her mug. Then it fades. “Damian.” There’s a tone to her voice that tugs at something in my chest.
“Yes?”
“Nothing. I just…like this.”
So do I. Too much, I’m afraid.
15
PERRY
I almost tellhim three times before breakfast.
The first time is when he says he likes his eggs scrambled soft, not dry. He’s standing at my stove like he’s always belonged there, sleeves pushed up, serious about something as simple as heat control.
“You’re very particular,” I tease, leaning against the counter with my coffee.
“Details matter.”
They do. That’s the problem. Because the detail I’m holding back is not small. It’s two boys who look a little too much like him when they squint.
“Damian—” I start.
He looks up immediately. “Yes?”
I lose my nerve. “Nothing. I was going to say you cook like a control freak.”
“That’s accurate.” He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Slides a dish toward me. The domestic ease of it nearly knocks the breath out of me.
In all my dating years, I’ve lived with two men. But I always kept an apartment of my own. Just in case. I was never invested, and I had an out anytime I needed it. In the few months that I lived with each of them, neither of them ever made me eggs.
Cameron took my plate to the kitchen after dinner once, but that was a prelude to something more. It always was with him. God forbid I ever asked him for a foot rub. The one time I did, I woke up in a Catholic schoolgirl uniform the next morning.
The other guy I lived with, Rashid, brought me a glass of water once, and I nearly passed out from the thoughtfulness of it. Or that might have been from the dehydration. Hard to know. We’d gone hiking, and I didn’t realize we’d be out that long, so I hadn’t bothered to bring water. When we got home, I was so parched that I was sore all over. He brought me water, and I pathetically swooned.
It’s one thing to have staff take care of me. I’ve had plenty of eggs made by cooks, housekeepers, and the like. Drivers who took me shopping. Pharmacists who handled my prescriptions because my boyfriend told them to. Their employers never did anything for me themselves.
One night with Damian, and he’s making me coffee and breakfast. And the breakfast is good. What the hell?
We sit at the tiny table by the window. Morning light spills across the floor. It feels absurdly normal. Like this is what we’ve always done. He reaches across the table, brushing his thumb lightly over my knuckles. It’s not sexual. It’s grounding.
And it makes the guilt twist harder.
“I liked waking up next to you,” he says.
My stomach dances, and my heart is at war with my head. I take a long glug of my coffee. “I slept well next to you. I don’t normally…well, I don’t know that I’ve ever invited a guy to stay over before. It’s happened; some guys don’t know when to leave, and sometimes, I’m too tired to say something about them leaving…but I can’t remember the last time I’ve asked for it.”
He smiles at that, then returns to his eggs. He tells me about a rafting trip from years ago, about nearly flipping the boat because he misjudged the current. “You can’t hesitate. If you do, the river punishes you.”
I’m hesitating, and I know I’m going to get punished for it. But I can’t face it yet.
He checks his watch halfway through his third cup of coffee. “I need to go home and change,” he says reluctantly. “Work.”
