22. Morning Revelations
Chapter twenty-two
Morning Revelations
Mandy
The loft smells like domesticity and impending absence.
It's a specific blend: the sharp, acidic tang of dark roast coffee, the buttery richness of eggs hitting a hot skillet, and the faint, lingering scent of Sterling's cedar-wood shampoo.
I lie in the middle of his bed, my arm draped over the hollow space where he was sleeping twenty minutes ago.
The sheets are still warm, a fading ghost of his body heat that makes the morning feel quieter than it should.
Outside the massive industrial windows, Chicago is beginning to wake up, a hazy gray light filtering through the clouds and casting long, skeletal shadows of the fire escape onto the floor.
I listen to the rhythm of the kitchen. There's the low, mechanical hum of the espresso machine, the rhythmic thwack of a spatula against the pan, and the creak of the cabinet door that always sticks.
I know these sounds now. I've catalogued them like a designer fussing over leading, adjusting the space between one line and the next until the whole block breathes, fitting them into a new mental map of what home sounds like.
It's a dangerous kind of knowledge, the sort that builds roots before you realize you've even planted them.
I pull his gray sweatshirt over my head, the oversized hem falling to mid-thigh.
It's heavy and smells like laundry detergent and him, a combination that is rapidly becoming my favorite sensory experience.
I've stopped looking for my own clothes in the suitcase living in the corner of his room.
It stopped feeling like I was borrowing his things days ago; now, it just feels like belonging, which is a much scarier word than 'temporary.
' I pad out to the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the hardwood, and find him already in his department jacket, his dark hair still damp from the shower.
He doesn't turn around when I enter, but he reaches for the second mug on the counter. “Morning, Sparkles.”
“How did you know I was awake?” I hook my heels on the rung of the stool and watch the way his shoulders fill out the navy blue fabric of the 'Saint Sterling' jacket.
He's already in work mode, the focused, steady energy of a man prepping for a twenty-four-hour shift.
The jacket looks official, intimidating even, but there's a smudge of flour on his cuff that reminds me he was just making pancakes for my parents yesterday.
“You have a specific wake-up sigh,” he says, sliding the mug toward me. “Three minutes of silence, one long exhale, and then the floorboards start complaining. It's like clockwork.”
I take a sip. It's exactly how I like it, oat milk, one sugar, no foam.
He didn't have to ask. He didn't even look up from the eggs.
He moves through the kitchen with a military-grade efficiency, his movements purposeful and economic.
The realization lands with a soft, heavy thud in my stomach.
He's learned my coffee. He's learned my sighs.
We're navigating this small space without negotiating it, shifting our weight around each other like we've been doing it for years instead of two weeks.
I catch our reflection in the dark window over the sink.
The glass is cold, but the image it reflects is warm.
We look like a couple. Not the fake kind we've been performing for my parents, but something settled.
Something real. He catches my eye in the glass, just for a second, his expression unreadable and intense, a deep, molten brown that seems to hold more questions than answers, before he turns back to the stove.
I file that look away, a small treasure I'm not ready to inspect in the light.
“Is that my sweatshirt?” he asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he slides a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs onto the counter.
“I'm starting to think I'm never getting my wardrobe back.
At this rate, I'll be showing up to the station in your llama socks because I have nothing left.”
“It was on the floor. I'm just preventing a tripping hazard. I'm basically an unpaid safety consultant,” I say, lifting the mug to hide my smile. “Besides, it's a better look on me. More... oversized chic. On you, it's just a shirt. You should be thanking me for elevating your brand.”
“Oversized chic,” he repeats, shaking his head, though the amusement in his voice is unmistakable. “You're impossible.”
“And yet, you made the coffee. Which implies a level of acceptance regarding my impossibility. Or perhaps even an appreciation of it?”
He doesn't answer with words. He just reaches out and nudges my shoulder with his own, a brief, solid contact that sends a jolt of electricity straight to my toes. It's the kind of touch that doesn't need an audience.
The guest room door clicks open, and the easy air between us snaps shut, replaced by the rigid, performative tension we've been living under since my parents arrived.
My mother, Carol, emerges in a perfectly pressed cream cardigan and sensible slacks, her hair already styled into its signature soft wave.
She looks at us, Sterling with the spatula, me in his sweatshirt, the shared steam of our coffee, and her eyes light up with the kind of predatory approval that usually precedes a lecture on retirement funds or biological clocks.
“Good morning, you two,” she says, her voice bright with terrifying satisfaction.
She heads for the kettle, her movements prim and deliberate.
“What a lovely picture you make. Sterling, you're such a provider.
It's so refreshing to see Mandy being looked after.
Truly. After everything with... well, it's just nice to see you in good hands.”
I stiffen, the coffee suddenly tasting like lead. I know exactly who she's referencing without her saying his name. Derek. The man who was 'stable' until he was stifling. “I look after myself just fine, Mom. I've been doing it for a long time.”
“Of course you do, dear,” she says, her tone patronizingly sweet.
She adjusts the collar of her cardigan, the very image of sensible suburban propriety.
“But it's nice that you can finally relax.
Now that you aren't so consumed by your little hobby.
I was telling your father last night, it's such a relief that you've found someone stable like Sterling.
It gives you room to breathe, doesn't it? To figure out what you want to do next, now that the drawing pictures phase is settling down.”
I feel the air leave my lungs. The familiar knot of insecurity tightens in my chest, a physical constriction that makes it hard to swallow.
It's the old song, the one where my career is a 'phase' and my talent is just 'drawing pretty pictures.
' It's the way she reduces my late nights, my client pitches, and my technical mastery to a childish pastime.
I open my mouth to defend myself, to tell her about the New York offer, about the complexity of the branding systems I build, but the words feel small and tired.
They feel like they've been worn down by years of the same argument, and I'm suddenly exhausted by the weight of my own ambition.
“It isn't a hobby, Carol.”
Sterling's voice is quiet, but it cuts through the room with the force of a command. He sets the spatula down with a definitive clack and turns fully toward my mother. His posture is relaxed but immovable, like he's standing in front of a flare-up he's determined to extinguish.
My mother pauses, her hand on the tea tin. “Pardon?”
“Mandy's work,” Sterling says, stepping closer to the island until he's commanding the center of the kitchen.
“I've watched her pull twelve-hour days at that desk.
I've seen her agonize over a single pixel until it's perfect.
I've seen the way she builds a brand from nothing but a conversation.
It's not 'drawing pictures.' It's architecture for the eyes.
It's precision and psychology and a hell of a lot of talent.
She's one of the most disciplined professionals I've ever met, in or out of the department.”
I stare at him, my heart doing a strange, fluttering dance behind my ribs.
My skin feels too tight for my body. Nobody has ever spoken to my mother like that, not with that level of calm, unwavering authority.
Certainly not Derek, who used to nod along when she called my studio a 'boutique endeavor' and then suggest I take up corporate law or human resources so we could have 'real' things to talk about at dinner.
Derek treated my career like an accessory; Sterling is treating it like a calling.
“Well, I didn't mean it wasn't... difficult,” my mother says, her poise flickering for the first time.
She clutches her cardigan at the throat, her eyes darting between us.
“I just meant that with a man like you, a man with a real, steady career and a pension, she doesn't have to carry the burden of a career if she doesn't want to. She can focus on... other things.”
“She wants to,” Sterling says, and this time his gaze shifts to me.
It isn't a casual look; it's burning with a fierce, protective heat that makes me feel like I'm standing too close to an open flame.
“And she's damn good at it. If she ever decided to stop, the design world would be a hell of a lot uglier for it.
But she's not stopping. She's just getting started.
And if you're looking for someone to be proud of her, look at me, because I'm floored by what she does every single day.”