Percy’s shirt hung to my knees, soft cotton that smelled of brown sugar and autumn leaves. I’d been wearing it after I changed last night and when I opened the door at dawn to find them still there.
“You stayed,” I blurted out without thinking.
“You asked,” he answered without second thoughts.
Just those two words. Then I’d closed the door and gone back to sleep, because looking at Solomon in the half-light of dawn, seeing the hunger he couldn’t quite hide, had been too much.
It was too intense. Too real.
Solomon’s jacket lay draped over the chair now, the leather still holding his scent. I’d taken it off before climbing back into bed, but I’d kept it close. Couldn’t bring myself to put it in the closet or fold it away.
That probably has a deeper meaning. I chose not to examine what.
Morning light streamed through the windows softer than what I was used to. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and caught my reflection in the window glass.
God. I looked like a disaster.
The dark dye I’d reapplied religiously every three weeks had faded more, copper-red roots bleeding through in a way that screamed“woman on the run who can’t afford a salon.”My heterochromia is very evident too.
It was what made me easy to spot. Memorable, the opposite of invisible.
I hate it.
I shoved that thought down and grabbed the sweatpants Percy had also lent me, rolling them at the waist three times before they’d stay up. His scent clung to the fabric and my stomach did a little flip that I aggressively ignored.
The lock clicked open smoothly when I tested it. The hallway was empty now, but two coffee cups still sat on the floor where I’d seen them hours ago. Evidence of how long they’d stayed, how long they’d waited.
My chest felt conflicted at the sight.
I stepped over the cups and crept toward the stairs, moving quietly out of habit. The smell hit me before I reached the kitchen.
Pancakes. Butter. Coffee.
Percy stood at the stove with a spatula in one hand, humming off-key. He wore a faded band t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders and sweatpants that hung low on his hips, his chestnut hair sticking up in approximately seventeen directions.
The t-shirt had ridden up while he reached for a plate, exposing a strip of tanned skin above his waistband and the edge of a tattoo that disappeared beneath the fabric. Ink curled up his forearms too, intricate designs I couldn’t quite make out from here, dark lines wrapping around muscle that flexed as he flipped a pancake.
My mouth went dry.
Which was ridiculous. I’d seen men’s arms before and I’d seen tattoos before. There was absolutely no reason for heat to bloom low in my stomach, or for my mind to start wondering how far down those tattoos went, what patterns they’d make across his chest, his ribs, his…
Nope. Absolutely not going there.
And he was dancing. A little hip wiggle as he flipped a pancake with entirely too much enthusiasm. The movement made his sweatpants slip another half inch lower, and I caught myself tracking the motion before I could stop.
The V of muscle at his hips was visible now, angling down toward…
Oh my god, Mira. Get it together! You’re staring at a man’s happy trail as if it holds the secrets of the universe!
I pressed my thighs together and tried to remember the last time I’d had this kind of reaction to anyone. Before Hudson. Before I’d learned to associate male bodies with pain instead of pleasure. It had been so long that I’d almost forgotten what wanting felt like.
Apparently, my body remembered just fine.
“Morning!” He spotted me in the doorway and his whole face lit up. “Coffee’s fresh. Pancakes in two minutes. Hm, you look like you actually slept. That’s nice.”
“No. I look like I got hit by a truck.”
“A very well-rested truck.” He pointed the spatula at a mug already sitting on the counter. “Two sugars.”
