Page 77 of Wells

I slide out of bed and find my robe on the chair. Wells sits up, the sheet pooling at his waist, and watches me tie the belt.

"You look good in my kitchen," I say.

"I haven't been to your kitchen yet."

"I'm fantasizing about it."

He swings his legs off the bed and stands, reaching for his pants. I catch the flex of muscle across his shoulders, how he moves with purpose even when there's nowhere he needs to be.

In the kitchen, I fill the French press while he leans against the counter, arms crossed, still shirtless. The morning light catches the tattoo on his ribs, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint not to run my fingers along the ink.

"You taste like cigarettes," I say.

He raises an eyebrow. "Speaking of, I need one."

"You'll have to take that outside, then. You know, you really should quit that nasty habit. It'll kill you."

"We all have to die."

"Charming."

I fill two mugs, handing him one. "Creamer's in the fridge, sugar right here," I say, nudging the little pottery dish toward him.

"I like it black," he says with a smirk, taking a sip. "This is delicious. Thank you."

"Of course." I lean against the opposite counter. We're both quiet for a minute as he looks around my apartment. The light coming through the window does something unfair to him. He looks different here, barefoot and shirtless in my space.

There it is again, the almost-smile, the one he lets out when he's amused but won't fully cave to it. I love that look on him.

"Does the smoking bother you?"

"I'm not going to lie. I'm not a huge fan. Plus, it's bad for you."

"I've been doing it basically my entire life. It's not going anywhere."

"You're stubborn like that," I say.

"So are you."

"True."

He picks up his coffee again, and we stand there in the quiet, drinking and not filling the space with unnecessary words. The silence isn't awkward. We earned it.

I think about the cigarettes, the stubbornness, how he watches everything and gives away nothing. A year ago, I would have stacked those up as red flags and headed for the door. Now I'm filing them away as things I can live with.

"What are you thinking?"

"That it's a beautiful Sunday and we should get out to enjoy it."

His attention sharpens on me. "Define enjoy."

"I don't know. A walk, yoga at the Fly, lunch outside."

"Hmm," is all he says. I don't push for a reaction just yet.

He sets his mug down and crosses to where I'm standing. His hand settles on my hip, thumb brushing the edge of my robe, and I tilt my head back to look at him.

"You're trouble," he says.