The Next Morning
The scent of fresh coffee filled the air, rich and dark. Viola stood barefoot in Mack’s kitchen, still in his T-shirt—soft cotton brushing the tops of her thighs—her hair a sleep-mussed mess. She poured herself a cup, cradling it in her hands as she leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the hazy morning light.
It should’ve felt awkward. Waking up in his home, padding through his space like she belonged.
But it didn’t.
She heard him before she saw him—bare feet, the soft rustle of a shirt being pulled over his head.
Then he was there.
Mack stood in the doorway, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, shirtless, hair tousled, jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the room worth breathing for.
—“Morning,”—she sa
