I turned.
Declan stood in the kitchen doorway, still in his work clothes, looking at me like he'd forgotten how to form words.
His eyes tracked down. Took in the fact that I was standing in his kitchen wearing basically nothing. Traveled back up to my face, lingering on the bruises I couldn't hide.
“Thought you'd be at work,” I said. It came out rougher than I meant it to.
“Came back for lunch.” His voice was careful. Controlled. The way it got when he was trying not to react to something. “Didn't think you'd be up yet.”
“Yeah, well. Surprise.”
We stood there for a long moment. Me half-naked and beaten to shit. Him fully dressed and staring like he didn't know whether to yell or leave or do something else entirely.
“Coffee?” I offered finally. Because standing here in tense silence while wearing nothing but underwear felt worse than making small talk.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I poured him a cup and handed it over. Our fingers brushed on the exchange and I felt it travel up my arm like a shock.
Declan took a drink and kept his eyes on my face instead of anywhere else. “You sleep okay?”
“Well enough.”
“Liar.”
I shrugged and regretted it immediately when my ribs protested.
He set his coffee down and moved toward the fridge. “You eat yet?”
“No.”
“Sit down. I'll make food.”
“You don't have to?—”
“Troy. Sit down.”
The tone left no room for argument. I sat at the kitchen table and watched him pull out eggs and bread and butter from the fridge.
He cooked the way he did everything. Quiet, competent, not wasting motion. Cracked eggs into a pan, got toast going, moved through the space like he owned it because he did.
I sat there drinking coffee and trying not to notice how good he looked. How his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he reached for the cabinet. How his forearms flexed when he flipped the eggs. How his jeans fit in ways that made my mouth go dry.
I needed to stop. Just fucking stop looking at him like that.
“Where'd you go yesterday?” he asked without turning around.
“Out. Rode around the city.”
“On the bike.”
“Yeah.”
“When'd you get a bike?”
“Yesterday. Bought it, rode it, came home.” I took another drink of coffee. “Didn't realize I needed to file a report.”
“You don't. Just making conversation.” He plated the food, brought it over, set it in front of me. Eggs over easy, toast with butter, exactly how I'd eaten it as a kid. “Eat.”
