I woke up Sunday thinking about his hand under mine and made coffee before I'd fully decided to be awake.
That was becoming a problem. The way Roman Ashford had started occupying the first thirty seconds of my morning before I'd given him permission to. I'd spent years being careful about what I let take up space in my head, and he was taking up space without effort, without asking, just by being exactly what he was consistently and without performance, and it turned out that was the thing I had the least defense against.
I heard him before I saw him. His footstep pattern — I hadn't been lying about that — the particular cadence of a man who moves through his own space with complete ease, no hesitation, no apology.
He came in and looked at me and said, "You made enough for two."
"I alw
