The afternoon light spilled through Adrian’s penthouse in honeyed sheets, the kind of light that made everything—marble counters, glass tables, even the shadows—look expensive. The faint hum of jazz floated from the sound system, low enough not to interrupt the rhythm of domestic life that had settled between them.
Trina padded barefoot across the kitchen tiles, a towel wrapped around her head and one of Adrian’s shirts hanging loosely off her shoulders. She was humming, something upbeat, snapping her fingers in time. The smell of coffee and something sweet—his attempt at breakfast, late as usual—lingered in the air.
“You used my French press again,” Adrian said from the living room, voice dry but fond.
“You left it on the counter,” she countered. “That’s basically consent.”
He looked
