"Debatable," she murmurs, but she smiles.
I tug on sweats, then press a quick kiss to her forehead. "Don't move."
Her brows lift. "Ordering me around already?"
"Get used to it," I say, turning toward the door. "I'll be back in a minute."
She sinks back against the pillows, still blinking unhurriedly. "You said that earlier and you came back with beer."
"Upgrading the offering this time."
I leave the bedroom and move through the dark hallway on autopilot, going down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, I see a box of brownies I got from a local baker yesterday. They were delicious, perfectly chocolatey with ahint of nutmeg. I heat one up, letting the chocolate go warm and soft, then put milk in a small pan on the stove.
Hot chocolate. Old habit from cold nights and mess tents when the younger guys needed something that wasn't caffeine and adrenaline.
Never thought I'd be making it for my best friend's daughter after fucking her into the mattress.
My stomach tightens at the thought, but my hands keep working. Cocoa, sugar, a pinch of salt, whisking until the smell fills the small kitchen.
It makes the whole thing feel domestic in a way I have no right to want.
When everything's ready, I load it onto a tray like an idiot trying to be thoughtful.
Brownie on a plate.
Steaming mug.
Napkin I don't actually need to add but do anyway.
Back upstairs, the bedroom is half-lit and the bedside lamp casts a warm pool over the bed.
She hasn't moved much.
She's sitting half up against the headboard, knees bent under my shirt, watching the doorway like she wasn't sure I meant it when I said I'd come back.
The look that crosses her face when she sees the tray hits me harder than I expect.
"You weren't kidding," she says softly. "Upgraded offering."
I set the tray on the nightstand and hand her the mug. "Careful. It's hot."
She blows on it and takes a tentative sip. Her eyes flutter shut. "Oh, my God. That's… really good."
I tear the brownie in half and hold a piece out to her. "Try this with it."
She takes it from my fingers, lips brushing my knuckles, and my body reacts like we didn't just spend an hour wringing each other out.
She chews, then chases it with another sip. Her eyes gloss, and at first I think she's tired. Then I see the way her mouth trembles.
"Lena," I say quietly. "Talk to me."
She swallows hard, setting the mug down before it spills. Her hands twist in the blanket bunched at her waist.
Her voice, when it comes, is thin around the edges. "I don't remember the last time I felt… cared for," she says. "Not like that. Not in bed. Not out of it."
Something heavy settles behind my ribs. "I've always felt exposed," she continues, eyes fixed on the brownie in her palm. "Like everyone is watching and judging how I take up space. Old boyfriends, strangers at the gym, aunties at family functions. It's either ‘you've got such a pretty face' or ‘you'd be amazing if you just lost a little.'" She lets out a humorless little breath. "You have no idea what it's like to feel like a ‘before’ picture every time you walk into a room."
