Aria
The morning after, the study door stayed locked between us, Adrian was already in the kitchen when I came downstairs. He hadn’t left for the office. That alone felt like an intrusion.
He stood at the island in a gray T-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower, flipping eggs in a pan like this was normal. Like last night hadn’t happened. The smell of coffee and butter filled the air, too domestic, too presumptuous
“Good morning,” he said without turning around.
I stopped in the doorway. My throat felt raw from crying. “You’re still here.”
“I called in late.” He slid the eggs onto two plates, added toast, set one in front of the stool across from him. “Sit. Eat something.”
I didn’t move. “I’m not hungry.”
“Please.” His voice cracked on the word. He looked up then, hi
