The morning after should have felt awkward.
Instead, it felt dangerous.
Rylan wasn’t in the bed when I woke up. But the dent where he had slept, the scent of his body in the sheets, the ghost of his breath on the back of my neck—it all lingered like a secret I didn’t know how to bury.
I got up and padded softly down the hall, heart drumming in my chest.
I found him in the kitchen, shirtless.
Just… standing there, making coffee like he hadn’t held me all night.
Like his hands hadn’t roamed just enough to make my skin burn. Like he hadn’t whispered into my shoulder with lips too soft for a man like him.
He looked over his shoulder. His eyes skimmed over me in the hoodie I borrowed—his hoodie—and then darted back to the coffee machine.
“Mornin’,” he muttered.
I swallowed. “Morning.”
