26. Karla
KARLA
Iwoke up to an empty bed.
For a terrifying half-second, my brain absolutely chose viciousness—Did I dream the sex? The safe cuddling? Did I hallucinate the man entirely and actually go home with a houseplant?
But no—when I blinked the sleep from my eyes, this was definitely Brayden’s room. Hockey posters on the wall, a laundry basket that smelled suspiciously like effort and Febreze, and a mattress big enough for an entire hockey line.
Okay. Good. Still real.
I rolled over and felt something stuck to my cheek. A piece of paper. I peeled it off like a sad little Post-it and squinted at the handwriting while rubbing my tired eyes.
Good morning, gorgeous.
Making breakfast downstairs.
There’s a robe in my bathroom for you.
—Brayden
I smiled so hard my face hurt. Then I promptly got tangled in the sheets trying to get out of bed, because my body had apparently decided gravity was optional today.
I grabbed the robe from his bathroom and sighed with relief when I realized it was comically too big to be a woman’s robe. If it had been a woman’s robe? Red flag. Flamethrower-level red flag.
Padding down the hall, I could already smell bacon—thick-cut, perfectly crispy, the kind that should come with a Surgeon General warning for inducing lust.
Finding Brayden in the kitchen, shirtless in jeans, cooking for me, was honestly one of the sexiest things I had ever seen in my entire life. He was bent slightly over the skillet, muscles shifting with every move, the morning sun hitting his back like some kind of romance-novel miracle.
Forget firefighter romances or billionaire romances—shirtless man cooking breakfast was my entire brand now.
“Good morning,” I breathed as I pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, wrapping my arms around his waist.
“Morning, babe.” He turned, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek—
“Gross!” came a voice behind me, followed by a giggle.
Myla. Oversized sweatshirt, messy bun, coffee already halfway to her face. Perfection.
Brayden tossed a dish towel at her. “Sis, mind your own business.”
“Coffee?” Myla asked, offering me a mug like we weren’t basically meeting in our pajamas after I’d just slept with her brother.
“Sure, thanks.”
She pointed to the table. “Sit. Brayden will take care of the rest.” She winked. “Have you read any of the firefighter romances by Amy Briggs yet?”
I blinked. “No. Should I?”
Her entire body lit up like someone plugged her into a power outlet. “Yes! Like, right now. Hold on—I have a copy of the complete series upstairs. You can totally borrow it.”
“I would love that,” I replied, genuinely. It hit me how long it had been since I’d sat with another girl and talked books. Martha and Kari were amazing—but they were the “true crime and wine” type, not the “fall in love with fictional men” type.
Myla practically levitated out of the room as Brayden plated our breakfasts. He sat next to me and grabbed my hand. “Hope you like eggs. I probably should have asked.”
“This is perfect.” I leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Did you sleep alright?” he asked, in between shoveling an alarming amount of eggs covered in hot sauce into his mouth. “You, uh… seemed to have a crazy-ass dream.”
I bit my lip. “Just a bad reverie about my shitty childhood.”
He shifted toward me, giving me his full attention. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here. But I will never pry.”
His voice was so gentle, it hit me right in the sternum.
“I appreciate that a lot,” I admitted quietly before sipping steaming java.
He nodded like that was enough—like offering support without pushing was second nature to him.
Then, abruptly—“Tomorrow night?”
I blinked. “What?”
He gave me a cute half-smirk. “We’re going out to dinner with your friends tomorrow night.”
Oh. That. The plans I totally remembered and definitely did not forget because I was too busy reliving childhood trauma.
I smacked my palm to my forehead. “Oh, yes! We’re still on. I cannot wait for you to meet Martha and Kari.”
“What if they don’t like me?” he asked, completely serious. Like deadpan, world-ending serious.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “They’re going to love you. Promise.”
His shoulders relaxed—but only a little.
“You sure?” he murmured.
“Positive. They love people who treat me well—and you do.”
He smiled, that soft kind he almost never lets anyone see.
And as the sunlight filled the kitchen, with bacon sizzling and Myla stomping upstairs to find smutty firefighter novels, I realized—this felt like home. Like safety and laughter and something real growing where something broken used to be.