Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Noelle
The kitchen smells like butter and bad coffee and him.
And maybe I shouldn’t find that combination this intoxicating, but here I am—barefoot, bed-headed, and trying not to let my thighs press too tightly together under his flannel shirt.
It’s early. Snow still smudges the windows, and the world’s quiet.
But my body isn’t.
Cal stands at the stove like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he doesn’t have a six-foot-three frame of lean, sleepy muscle just lounging in a T-shirt and the flannel pants that match my flannel shirt.
His back flexes as he flips the eggs. I can’t stop watching the slow roll of his shoulders, the way his hand braces the edge of the counter like he’s done this a hundred times.
There’s nothing flashy about it. No bravado. Just a man making eggs and still managing to short-circuit my nervous system.
Is it hot in here?
No? Just me?
My pulse bumps in that slow way it does when desire coils low in your gut.
I shift on the barstool, bare legs brushing the edge of the cabinet beneath me. The flannel rides up a little higher, and I catch the way his eyes flicker—not obvious, just a beat too long on the hem before he grabs a plate.
Good.
Let him look.
Let him feel it too.
I drag my gaze back to his hands—rough-knuckled, strong, careful as he plates the eggs. I wonder what those hands would feel like on my thighs. On my hips.
If he’d be that slow everywhere else.
God, I need to get it together.
“This your version of playing house?” I ask, voice breezy, when everything inside me is taut with want. “Because you’re really leaning into the shelter-from-the-storm vibe.”
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t smirk. Just deadpans, “Instant coffee and eggs. Bare minimum hero arc.”
The dry note in his voice slides under my skin like heat through a cracked window.
I huff a quiet laugh, pressing the mug to my lips to hide the smile that’s threatening. “Still counts. You fed a stray. Gave her your bed. Didn’t even grumble about it.”
He finally glances over, and there’s something different in his eyes—something low and unreadable and warm.
“You’re not a stray.” His voice is quieter now. “And I didn’t give you the bed. You just took it.”
That lands lower than it should. Somewhere between my belly and the ache building behind my knees.
My breath catches, and I hate that he probably hears it.
The plate slides toward me. He grabs a fork from the drawer and sets it down without a word. Our fingers brush—bare skin on bare skin—and even that stupid little touch feels like too much.
I don’t pull away.
He doesn’t either.
We just…pause.
A beat. A breath. A moment that stretches longer than it should.
I take the fork slowly, careful not to touch him again. Not because I don’t want to.
Because if I do, I’m going to want way more than I should.
He leans back against the counter, arms crossed now, watching me take my first bite like he’s cataloging every move.
And I let him look. Let the silence stretch just long enough to feel like foreplay.
The food is hot, but the tension is hotter.
And I’m starting to think I should’ve stayed under the covers—because this?
This feels far more dangerous than sharing a bed ever did.
He watches like he’s taking inventory—like he’s not sure he’s ever had someone at his kitchen counter before and he’s still trying to decide if he likes it.
Spoiler: he does.
Shifting, he leans back on his hands against the counter, his forearms flexed just enough to draw my eyes.
The stretch lifts his shirt slightly, revealing a sliver of abs, the faint trail of hair disappearing below the waistband of his flannel pants.
I swallow my bite and immediately forget how forks work.
“I’m starting to think you’ve done this before,” I say, twirling the tines in my eggs, pretending to be casual. “Bring home strays, serve them breakfast. It’s kind of a move.”
His head tilts, dark brows raised. “You think this is a move?”
“Are you saying it’s not?”
“Instant coffee, burnt toast, and eggs that are maybe one minute away from rubber? Noelle…” He huffs a soft laugh. “If this is me trying to impress you, I’m in trouble.”
“You’re not trying to impress me?” I lift my mug, eyes over the rim. “Shame. I was kind of enjoying it.”
His gaze sharpens. Not playful. Focused. Like he’s debating whether to volley or cut to the chase.
“Why do I get the feeling that athletes aren’t your type?”
Oh.
So we’re doing that.
“They’re not,” I say lightly, tapping my nail against the ceramic. “But you’re not exactly the typical jock.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re too quiet. Too…thoughtful. Guys like you usually talk more and listen less.”
His expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s a flicker—like I’ve surprised him. Maybe even hit something too close.
Good.
I slide the plate forward, appetite gone, skin buzzing instead. The heat between us isn’t playful anymore.
It’s slow. Controlled. Coiled under the surface.
“I still think this is your move,” I murmur.
“Offering someone eggs?”
“No. Making them feel…comfortable. Without trying.”
He goes still. Not stiff. Just…still. Like something landed harder than expected.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” I say quietly, eyes on the faint steam rising between us. “It’s kind of dangerous, though.”
He pushes off the counter slowly, coming to stand on the other side of the island. Close, but not close enough.
“Comfort’s dangerous?”
“In the wrong hands, yeah.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Stays there.
“You think I’ve got the wrong hands?”
I should laugh. Should deflect. But my pulse is thudding in my throat, and I swear the air just got hotter.
“No,” I whisper, voice barely audible. “That’s the problem.”
The silence between us sharpens.
And I swear—for one breathless second—I think he’s going to round the island. Close the space. Back me into this stool and kiss me until I forget every reason why I shouldn’t want him.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he just nods once. Like he’s filing it away.
Danger acknowledged.
And not avoided.
Just…postponed.
He picks up the carafe with one hand, reaches across the island, and tips it toward my mug in silent offering. I slide it toward him, fingers brushing his.
It should be nothing. Just knuckles and warm skin.
But the contact hums, low and deep, like a current slipping under my skin.
He doesn’t pull away right away. Neither do I.
My pulse stutters, then rushes. I wrap both hands around the mug like I need the ceramic barrier. Like it’ll protect me from whatever this is turning into.
“You’re a little too good at listening,” I murmur, because silence suddenly feels too intimate.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t deflect. Just shrugs like it’s a fact he never meant to confess.
“I grew up around silence,” he says. “You learn to hear things that aren’t said.”
My fingers tighten around the mug. I look at him and don’t know what to say.
Because he’s not just saying that he listens.
He’s saying he hears me. Even the parts I don’t mean to show.
And suddenly, I don’t feel like someone passing time in a snowstorm.
I feel known.
Seen in a way that makes my lungs tighten and my throat ache.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. Not even when I break it to sip coffee I can barely taste.
The silence stretches again, but it’s not empty.
I glance back out the window—snow still soft and relentless. The world outside is frozen.
But in here?
Everything’s starting to thaw.
He speaks softly, voice gravel-smooth:
“You ever think maybe you’re right where you’re supposed to be?”
I don’t answer.
But my heart does.
Thuds once—hard—then settles into something quiet and raw.
Maybe.
For the first time in a long time…just maybe.