His lips part slightly, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.
“Come on,” I say after a beat, softening my tone just a fraction.
“We should get breakfast. And we’ll talk. You’re probably starving just as much as I am, especially… after the night we had.”
I don’t give him time to argue. Instead, I step closer to the bed, watching him carefully.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Still pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream?”
“And coffee. Black. Two sugars.”
Something flickers across his face. Soft. Almost… fragile. And then I see it. That small, familiar smile. The one I remember too well.
“You still remember…” he whispers.
Of course I do. I remember everything.
“You can take a shower,” I tell him.
“I’ll have the chef start on breakfast.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m already seated at the kitchen island when I hear footsteps. I look up. And for a second—
I just watch him.
He’s wearing my shirt. Nothing else. It hangs off him, oversized, the fabric brushing mid-thigh, exposing just enough skin to make my jaw tighten. His hair is still slightly damp from the shower, falling messily around his face.
Jesus fucking Christ. He never looked more beautiful in his life. He truly is an angel.
I force my expression to stay neutral.
“What?” he asks, a little self-conscious under my gaze.
“I couldn’t find anything to wear,” he adds quickly.
“So I just… took this. Is that okay?”
He gestures down at the shirt.
“And I mean—it’s not like I have any of my clothes here.”
I let out a quiet breath.
“It’s fine,” I say simply.
He has no idea what he looks like right now.
“After breakfast,” I continue, pushing the thought aside, “we’ll go shopping. Get you whatever you need.”
I pause.
“And don’t worry about your things. I already had them moved here.”
That gets his attention.
“You what?”
