Chapter 6: Morning

I wake up to the smell of food.

For a few seconds, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling above me isn’t my dorm ceiling. It’s too high. Too clean. The light slipping through the curtains is pale and winter-soft, not the harsh fluorescent glare I’m used to waking up to at school.

Then my body remembers before my mind catches up.

The bed is unfamiliar but warm. The sheets are tucked too neatly. There’s a faint masculine scent—soap, something woody, something that tightens my chest before I can stop it.

Devon.

I sit up too quickly, my heart thudding like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. The room is quiet, but not empty. From downstairs, I hear the clink of a pan, the low hum of movement, the unmistakable sound of someone cooking like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

Of course he’s cooking.

I swing my legs off the bed slowly, grounding myself. The events of last night rush back in pieces I don’t want but can’t stop: his voice in the kitchen, calm and controlled; the way he apologized like he was talking about a spilled drink instead of my entire nervous system; the way he said my name like it meant nothing at all.

‘Your pussy is actually exquisite.’

Heat curls low in my stomach, uninvited and deeply annoying.

I drag a hand down my face and stand, tugging the oversized sleep shirt down my thighs. My bag is still by the wall where I dropped it last night, my clothes folded neatly on the chair beside it. Of course he did that too. Of course he couldn’t just leave things messy. Of course he had to be thoughtful in the most infuriating way possible.

The smell downstairs grows stronger as I make my way out of the room. Eggs, maybe. Toast. Something savory. Something domestic.

Something that feels dangerous.

When I step into the kitchen, Devon doesn’t look up immediately.

He’s standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, hair slightly damp like he’s already showered. The light from the window hits him from the side, outlining him in a way that makes my chest feel tight and stupid. He moves with ease, flipping something in the pan, completely at home in a space that suddenly doesn’t feel like mine at all.

“Morning,” he says casually.

I stop just inside the doorway.

“…Morning.”

He turns then, finally, and smiles at me not the slow, knowing one from last night. This one is softer, familiar and safe. The one he’s worn a thousand times before when I was younger and needed something fixed or found or explained.

It shouldn’t hurt. It does.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, plating food like this is just any other morning.

“Yeah,” I lie.

“Good.”

He sets a plate on the counter, then another beside it. Eggs, toast, something that smells like herbs. He reaches past me to grab cutlery, his arm brushing close enough that I feel the heat of him without contact.

My body reacts instantly. A quiet, humiliating awareness that makes my stomach flip.

He doesn’t react at all.

“Workers will be here in about an hour,” he says, rinsing his hands at the sink. “They’re starting with the upstairs today. Electrical and framing.”

“Oh.” I latch onto the topic like a lifeline. “Okay.”

“You should probably get dressed,” he adds gently. “Nothing too… you know. They’ll be in and out of the house.”

Decent, he means. Covered and normal. I guess he doesn’t want the workers to see my skin too.

“Yeah,” I say again. “Of course.”

He slides a mug toward me—coffee, already poured, just the way I like it. I freeze for half a second before taking it.

“You remembered,” I say quietly.

His shoulders tenses just slightly. It is so fast I almost miss it.

“I remember a lot of things,” he replies, turning back to the stove.

I eat in silence, every bite heavy in my mouth. He eats too, standing across from me, flipping through his phone like this is just another responsibility he’s managing. Like I’m just another thing on his list to take care of.

I hate how badly I want to disrupt that calm.

When I stand to take my plate to the sink, my foot catches on the edge of the rug.

It happens fast.

One second I’m upright, the next I’m pitching forward, breath leaving me in a small, startled sound.

Devon moves instantly.

His hands catch me before I can hit the floor one at my waist, the other braced against my back. The contact is firm, instinctive, too sure. I collide with his chest, the scent of him overwhelming up close.

For half a second, neither of us moves.

My hands are pressed flat against him, my palms burning like I’ve touched something forbidden. His grip tightens reflexively, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

I can feel his breath against my hair.

My body betrays me in ways I can’t hide. My skin hums. My chest feels tight, heavy with awareness. My hips press just slightly forward before I can stop myself.

Devon swallows.

“Careful,” he says, voice low, steady in a way that feels practiced.

“Sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure what for.

He lets go immediately, stepping back like he’s been burned.

“You okay?” he asks, already retreating into distance.

“Yeah.”

He nods, satisfied with the answer, and reaches for his jacket. “I’ll go talk to the workers when they get here. If you need anything, just—” He stops himself. “Just call me.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it.

I watch him walk away, my pulse still racing, my body still caught in the echo of his hands.

Last night didn’t happen.

Except my body knows better.

And so does his.