I didn’t expect to find him in the kitchen.
Not in that crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar casually open like he hadn’t just rewritten the terms of our entire arrangement the night before.
He was by the coffee machine when I walked in, tall, calm, a quiet storm wrapped in expensive fabric. Focused on pouring a splash of cream into his mug, like it was just another Tuesday and not the morning after something had shifted irreversibly between us.
Like he hadn’t handed me a kind of power I wasn’t sure what to do with.
I hovered near the archway, unsure of what to say.
His voice reached me before my thoughts could catch up. “You’re up.”
I nodded slowly. “You’re still here.”
“I live here.”
“Technically.”
He looked over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Still arguing
