Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
I’ve never done this before. I’ve never gotten up early and cooked breakfast for a man. But he listened to me without judgment. He opened up to me just because he knew it would make me feel less alone. He gave me the space to fall asleep and didn’t try to wake me. He carried me to bed like I weighed nothing and covered me up like a child.
I’ve never been tucked in before. I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that.
For the first time in my life, he made me feel something close to belonging.
My chest tightens at that thought. I press my palm against the cool counter and wait for my heart to steady. This is dangerous territory. I still don’t know anything about him, and his life seems messy. Messy and dangerous in a million different ways.
I flip the French toast in the pan. I don’t expect it to come out perfect, but cooking helps the swirl in my chest settle a little. I plate everything carefully and wipe the edge of the dish the way I once saw on a fancy cooking show.
The elevator hums, and I hear the muted sounds of footsteps. I look up and see Samuil walk in, dressed in jogging clothes and sweating. I didn’t realize he’d left the apartment.
My heart stutters in my chest. I freeze, like I’ve been caught doing something illicit.
Still, when he enters the kitchen, sweat-damp and breathing steadily, shirt clinging to his chest before he grabs the hem and pulls it over his head, I feel a rush of heat so sudden I almost step backward.
His skin is glistening and his muscles are taut. His shoulders are broad, and his hair is slightly disheveled from the wind. His entire presence fills the room in an instant, and I’m suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin under the thin fabric of my sleep shirt.
He stops halfway across the room, eyes dropping to the table, then lifting to me.
“What’s all this?” he asks quietly.
I clear my throat. “I made breakfast,” I say, sounding lame even to my own ears.
His brows lift slightly, almost in disbelief. “For me?”
“For both of us,” I say, even though my appetite is a fragile thing lately. “Just… I don’t know. As a thank you.”
He stares at me for a moment longer, unreadable. Something in his expression softens, but he doesn’t let it settle. He looks down at himself instead.
“I need to shower first,” he says, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple.
“I like you like this,” I say before I can stop myself.
Heat shoots up my neck as soon as the words come out. His head snaps up, eyes sharp and dark, pinning me in place.
He doesn’t comment. He simply watches me for a long, simmering beat that makes my skin prickle. Then, with a low sound that might be amusement or something deeper, he turns and walks toward his room.
I release a slow breath the moment he disappears around the corner.
What am I doing?
I return to the table, adjusting the plates even though everything already looks neat. My palms are damp. My body is too warm. My nerves feel like live wires sparking under my skin.
It’s the hormones, I tell myself. The early pregnancy. The nausea that comes and goes in unpredictable waves. The strange mixture of joy and terror living inside me like two halves of the same truth.
But that’s not it. Not entirely.
Last night wasn’t just emotional. It was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex. He shared something painful about his childhood. I told him things I’ve never told anyone, not even Kelly. A strange thread formed between us, fine and fragile, but real.
And now I can’t seem to breathe normally when I think of him.
He glances at the food, then at me. “Did you poison it?” he asks dryly.
I roll my eyes, relieved by the joke.
“Yes. Of course. I figured the best way to handle this whole mess was to murder you with cinnamon and carbs.”
He cuts into the French toast, takes a bite, and closes his eyes briefly as if surprised by how good it tastes. When he opens them again, I’m still staring at him. I try to look away, but the connection holds.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I hesitate. Then the truth slips out.
“How much I like being around you.”
His knife stills. His expression tightens almost imperceptibly, like he wasn’t expecting that. Like he’s not sure what to do with it. He studies me across the table, eyes moving from my face to my hands to my throat, like he’s reading my thoughts.
“I was also thinking about how grateful I am.” I swallow. “That you care enough to make sure I’m safe. Even when I was being difficult about it.”