AVELA’S POV
I woke to the smell of coffee and something sweeter—vanilla and burnt sugar. The sheets beside me were still warm, but Lucas wasn’t there. Sunlight sliced through the window, painting gold stripes across the bed. My head felt thick, cotton-wrapped, the way it always did after I cried myself empty. Last night came back in flashes: the leaked photos, the headlines calling me hysterical, unstable, vindictive.
And Lucas. Lucas holding me together when I was sure I’d shatter.
I padded barefoot into the kitchen. He stood at the island in low-slung gray sweats, no shirt, flipping something in a pan that smelled like heaven. His back was to me—broad, scarred in places I’d kissed a hundred times. My handyman. The man who could rewire a brownstone with one hand and make me forget my o
