Me.
A single heartbeat of softness flashes in her face before it vanishes, replaced by something sharper. Controlled. Polite. Ready.
Armor back on.
I don’t move closer. “Morning,” I say.
“Morning.” Her voice is rough, quiet.
Silence sits between us. Not awkward. Loaded. Last night exists in that silence. Her mouth against mine. The way her fingers fisted in my shirt like she didn’t know whether she was holding on or pushing away. The way she shivered when I exhaled against her throat.
The way she stopped herself before it became something that could trap her.
I bring her coffee to the bedside table and set it down without touching her. She watches my hands while I do it. Always the hands. I don’t blame her. Hands are what men use when they run out of words.
“Breakfast?” I ask, keeping it simple. “Stay for it.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s searching for the catch. Then she nods once.
“Okay.”
She gets out of bed slowly, sheet clutched tight around her like a shield, and crosses the room barefoot. Her steps are light. Balanced. A body trained not to slam doors by accident.
We sit at the table with distance between us. Not too much. Not too close. A line neither of us names. She holds her coffee with both hands, heat seeping into her fingers. She takes one bite of toast, chews slowly, eyes down. Like she’s trying to act normal. Like normal is something you can fake until it becomes real. I let her have the quiet.
Then she speaks without looking up. “I…” She stops. The word breaks under its own weight.
I don’t fill the gap. I wait.
Finally, she inhales, tight and careful. “Thank you.”
It’s a small sentence. It isn’t about the coffee. It isn’t even about last night. It’s about being treated like a person instead of an object that owes someone something.
I nod once. “You’re welcome.”
Her eyes lift to mine, sharp with suspicion. “That’s usually when people start asking questions,” she says.
“People,” I repeat, neutral.
“Yes.”
I can hear the word she doesn’t say.Men.
“I’m not here to collect anything from you,” I tell her. “Not a story. Not an explanation.”
Her gaze flicks away, then back, like she wants to believe it and hates herself for wanting that.
I take my card out then. Plain. First name. Number. No last name. No title. No empire. I slide it across the table and stop it halfway between us.
A choice. Nothing else.
“If you ever need something,” I say, “call.”
Her eyes drop to it like it’s a blade. For a second, her hand moves. Not all the way. Just a twitch.
Then she pulls back, curling her fingers into her lap like she physically has to stop herself. “I can’t,” she says.
My chest tightens. “You can,” I reply, because it’s true. Because the world would open for her if she said my name in the right rooms.
