I sit, but only because I don't know what else to do. I watch her move through my kitchen like she belongs there, pulling plates from the cupboard on her first try, finding the coffee mugs without asking where they are. She must have mapped the whole kitchen before I woke up.
She sets a plate in front of me. Eggs, perfectly cooked. Toast. Tomatoes. A cup of black coffee.
Then she sits across from me with her own plate and starts eating. Calm. Quiet. Like this is the most natural thing in the world.
It's not natural. None of this is natural. Twenty-four hours ago I didn't know what she looked like, and now she's in my kitchen making me breakfast and I can still feel the ghost of her thighs around my hips.
"How did you sleep?" she asks.
"Fine."
A lie. She probably knows it's a lie. But she nods and takes a sip of her coffee and doesn't push.
"I thought I'd spend today getting the house organized," she says. "If that's alright. Some of the cupboards could use rearranging, and I noticed the guest bedroom linens need rotating."
She noticed. She's been here less than twelve hours and she's already done an inventory of my house.
"Do whatever you want with it," I say.
She looks up at me. Studies my face. "Is there anything you'd prefer I not touch?"
"My study. End of the hallway downstairs. Stay out of it."
A flicker of something crosses her expression. Acceptance. Like she expected a locked door somewhere and was just waiting to find out which one.
"Of course," she says with that practiced smile again.
We eat in silence after that. The food is good. Better than good. The eggs are exactly the way I like them, which is impossible because she doesn't know how I like them. She just got it right.
When I'm done, I push back from the table. She starts to stand, reaching for my plate, but I pick it up myself and carry it to the sink.
She watches me do it. Something flickers across her face again. Surprise this time. Small and quickly hidden.
"I have work today," I say. "I'll be back late."
"Anton."
I stop. Look back.
She's still sitting at the table, hands wrapped around her coffee mug, morning light catching the chestnut shades in her hair. Shelooks young. Younger than she did yesterday in that wedding dress and veil.
"Thank you," she says. "For last night. For being..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Careful."
Something twists in my chest. Sharp and unfamiliar.
"Don't thank me for basic decency," I say.
Then I walk out before I do something stupid like sit back down and ask her what she's thinking behind those quiet brown eyes.
Kira
Three days into my marriage, and I've learned the following things about my husband:
He drinks his coffee black. He leaves for work before seven and comes home after dark. He sleeps on the left side of the bed, on his back, and he doesn't move all night. He owns more books than clothes. He keeps his study locked when he's not in it. And he watches me when he thinks I'm not looking.
That last one I'm not supposed to know. But I feel it. The weight of his gaze on the back of my neck when I'm cooking. The way his eyes track me across a room and then snap away the second I turn around. He watches me like he's trying to find answers to a complex question, and it makes my skin warm in ways I don't want to examine too closely.
We haven't had sex since the wedding night.
