Chapter 15
Maya
The morning after the headboard hit the wall, I make coffee before either of them comes downstairs.
Early sun cuts through the window above the sink and hits the counter hard enough to make me squint. I wrap both hands around my mug, my hair damp against the back of my neck, and last night keeps coming back in pieces I can feel in my throat, my stomach, the inside of my thighs.
Cole's voice came through the wall first, low enough to make my stomach pull tight before the headboard found its rhythm against the plaster. Then Dante's breathing followed, rough and broken, Italian slipping out of him in pieces I couldn't translate and understood anyway. The bed frame hit the wall faster and faster until it stopped, and somehow the silence after was worse, because silence meant they were lying there together while I wastwelve feet away with my hand pressed into the mattress, my thighs clamped tight, and heat still crawling through me long after the room went quiet.
The text went out at 1 a.m.The walls in this house are thin.I watched the screen until the read receipt appeared, my pulse beating so hard I felt it under my tongue.
Now it is morning. The coffee is ready, my hands are steady around the mug, and the kitchen is waiting for the two of them to come downstairs and stand inside what we made last night.
Cole comes down first and stops in the doorway. His gaze moves from me to the coffee to my face, the usual sweep, but slower this morning. Heavier. The text I sent at 1 a.m. is still on my phone upstairs, but it might as well be open on the counter between us.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning. Coffee's ready."
He crosses to the coffee and pours a cup. His shoulder brushes mine at the counter, and he lets the contact hold for one extra second before reaching for the sugar.
"Sleep okay?" he asks.
"Eventually."
The spoon pauses halfway to his cup. That one word hangs between us, and his throat bobs.
Dante comes down three minutes later, dressed in black, his hair still damp. He walks into the kitchen, sees me, and his stride catches for half a step before he recovers. Without speaking, he pours coffee, black and measured, his fingers precise on the mug, his shoulders squared, his jaw set hard enough to cut off whatever almost made it through.
The three of us stand in the kitchen without speaking. Cole leans against the counter. Dante stays at the far end with his mug. I stand between them, both hands tight around a mug I keep lifting to my mouth without drinking. Morning light poolson the counter, the coffee maker clicks off, and none of us breathes right.
"How much did you hear?" Cole asks.
The question sounds casual. With Cole, casual means his gaze is already on Dante before my answer leaves my mouth.
"Enough to know his Italian gets creative under pressure." Dante's mug stops halfway to his mouth. "And enough to know you're louder than you think you are," I say to Cole.
"I'm not—"
"You are."
Dante takes a deliberate sip. His eyes find mine across the mug, and the flush climbing my neck is visible. I let it climb.
"The headboard needs reinforcing," Dante says. His voice stays low, the corner of his mouth barely shifting. "Structural issue."
"The headboard isn't the structural issue," I say.
Cole chokes on his coffee.
Dante's jaw tightens, and whatever answer he meant to give never makes it past his teeth. He holds my gaze for three seconds longer than the joke deserves. The muscle there jumps. His hands go too still around the mug. He swallows once, hard, and looks like he would rather cut his own tongue out than say the truth in daylight.
Cole sets his mug down. His gaze moves from me to Dante and back again. Dante's almost-answer sits there in the jump of his jaw. Heat crawls up my neck. Dante holds the mug too carefully. Neither of us has enough sense to look away. Cole's shoulders drop a fraction, his breathing slows, and the corner of his mouth softens.
"You're standing in our kitchen," Cole says quietly. "In my hoodie. Making coffee."
"I am."
"And you slept through none of it."
