Coffee first. Then answers.
And Kane.
My stomach fluttered unexpectedly at the thought of him.
Yesterday’s text exchange replayed in my mind as I brushed my damp hair back and tied it loosely. His dry humor. The warmth behind the restraint.
Sleep, Manhattan.
Not rejection.
Not distance.
Just control.
And somehow that control made me want to test him even more.
I’d barely poured coffee into Rose’s chipped mug when the knock came at the door.
My pulse jumped in immediate recognition.
Ridiculous, how quickly my body had learned the sound of his arrival.
I set the mug down, wiped my palms on my jeans, and opened the door.
Kane stood in the hallway, hands in his jacket pockets, short hair slightly mussed like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. Fresh bruise shadowed his jaw. Another cut I hadn’t noticed last night traced his knuckle.
His eyes swept over me—and stopped.
Something shifted in his expression.
Slow.
Appreciative.
Dangerous.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough.
Heat crept up my neck.
“Morning.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the sweater sleeves hanging past my hands, then returned to my face.
“That hers?”
I nodded. “Felt … better.”
A flicker of understanding softened his features.
“You look good in it.”
The way he said it made warmth slide lower in my belly.
He’d said I look good.
“Careful,” I said lightly. “Compliments this early set expectations.”
