Chapter 22
Elera Carter
I woke up to the smell of coffee.
This was new. Not the coffee itself-I made coffee every morning, the same way, at the same time, because routines were the only thing that kept me functional. But I hadn't made this coffee.
I lay still for a moment, my face pressed into the pillow that still smelled like him. The sheets were cool on his side of the bed. He had been up for a while.
I stretched, letting the morning light fall across my face, and listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen. The low clink of a mug being set down. The soft hiss of something on the stove. The coffee machine hummed its final breath.
I stumbled out of the bedroom, still half-asleep, my hair a mess, and stopped in the doorway.
He hadn't heard me. Or maybe he had and he was letting me look. Either way, I stood there longer than I should have, watching the way he moved, the quiet efficiency of his hands, the way he had arranged the counter like he lived here.
Like this was his kitchen too.
"Are you going to stand there all day?" he said without turning.
I smiled. "How did you know?"
"You breathe too loud."
"I do not."
He turned then. His eyes found mine, moved over my face, my hair still loose from sleep, the too-large shirt I had stolen back from him weeks ago. Something in his expression shifted. Softened, maybe. Or sharpened. I could never tell with him.
"Your coffee's getting cold," he said.
I crossed the kitchen and picked up the mug. It was warm in my hands. Made the way I liked it-too much milk, a little sugar.
He remembered.
I took a sip and watched him plate whatever he had been making. Eggs. Toast. Something green on the side that was probably good for me.
"You're spoiling me," I said.
He set the plate in front of me. "You need spoiling."
I opened my mouth to argue. Closed it. Because he was right. I had spent so long being the one who gave-my time, my money, my loyalty, my love-and no one had ever thought to give anything back. Not Oliver. Not Anne. Not anyone.
And now there was this man, who had nothing, who had shown up at my door with nothing but the clothes on his back, and he was standing in my kitchen making me breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I blinked hard and looked down at my plate.
"You're thinking too loud," he said.
I laughed. It came out slightly wet. "You can't hear thoughts."
"I can hear yours." He sat across from me, his own coffee in hand. "You're wondering why I'm still here."
I looked up. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were watching me the way they always did, like I was something he was trying to figure out.
"I wasn't wondering," I said.
"Liar."
I didn't deny it.
"Oliver never made me breakfast," I said. The words came out smaller than I meant them to. "He said he wasn't a morning person. Which was fine. I didn't mind. I made my own coffee, my own toast, and I told myself that was normal. That couples didn't have to do everything together."
I stopped. Pushed a piece of egg around my plate.
"But sometimes I wondered what it would be like. To wake up and have someone already there. To not have to do everything alone."
I looked at him. He hadn't moved. His face was still unreadable, but his hand was flat on the table between us, close enough to reach.
"I'm not Oliver," he said.
"I know."
"I'm not him." His voice was low. "I don't want you to think about him."
I reached out and put my hand over his. His fingers turned, laced through mine, held on.
"I know," I said again.
We sat like that for a moment. The kitchen was quiet. The coffee was warm. His hand was solid in mine.
"Eat," he said finally. "Your eggs are cold."
I smiled and picked up my fork.
I finished eating. Carried my plate to the sink. Stood there for a moment with the water running, looking out the window.
"You've been looking at apartments," he said from the table.
I turned off the tap. "How do you know that?"
"Your laptop was open. On the counter. With apartment listings."
"I wasn't-it was for Sienna. She mentioned she was thinking of moving and I said I would-"
"You're lying."
The words were quiet. Not accusatory. Just a fact.
I looked at him. He was watching me with that unreadable expression, the one that made me feel like he could see straight through every wall I had ever built.
"It's too small," I said finally. "The apartment. For two people."
He didn't say anything.
"I was just looking. I wasn't going to-I didn't want to assume-" I stopped. Took a breath. Started again. "You've been sleeping on the couch. Or with me. But the couch is too small and the bedroom is barely big enough for my bed, and I thought maybe if there was more space you wouldn't have to-"
"Elera."
I stopped.
He stood. Crossed to where I was standing by the sink. His hand covered mine on the counter, warm and solid.
"We don't need more space," he said.
I stared at him.
"The couch is fine. Your apartment is fine. I don't need anything else."
"But you-"
"I'm not going anywhere." His thumb traced a line across my knuckles. "Unless you want me to."
My chest did something complicated. Something that felt like relief and terror all at once.
"I don't want you to," I said. My voice came out smaller than I meant it to.
He squeezed my hand. Once. Then he let go and picked up his coffee like nothing had happened.
I stood there for a moment, my hand still warm where his had been, and tried to remember what my life had been like before he walked into it.
I couldn't even imagine.
____________________________________
The morning light had shifted by the time I finished getting ready. I stood in front of the mirror, twisting my hair into something that looked professional, and watched him in the reflection. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me, his arms crossed over his chest.
"You don't have to wait," I said. "I'll be late."
"I'll wait."
I caught his eyes in the mirror. "You're very stubborn."
"You're very talkative."
I stuck my tongue out at him. His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile but close. I counted it as a win.
When I was finally ready-hair pinned, blouse tucked, bag over my shoulder-I turned to face him. He stood. Walked toward me. Stopped close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him.
"Something's missing," he said.
I frowned. "What?"
His hand came up. His fingers brushed my jaw, tilted my face, and then he was kissing me. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that wasn't asking for anything, just giving.
When he pulled back, my face was warm and my heart was doing something loud in my chest.
"There," he said. "Now you can go."
I stared at him. "You-that's-you can't just do that and then send me to work."
"I just did."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to pull him back down and kiss him until we were both late. But my phone was buzzing in my bag and the clock on the wall was ticking and I had a meeting I couldn't miss.
"I'll be back by six," I said, already at the door.
"I know."
"Don't burn the apartment down."
"No promises."
I laughed and pulled the door open. And then, because I was already late and because he was watching me with those dark eyes and because I had spent too much of my life leaving without saying the things that mattered, I stopped.
"Caspian."
He raised an eyebrow.
I swallowed. "I'm glad you're here."
Something moved across his face. Gone before I could name it.
"Go," he said. But his voice was softer than before and I left.
____________________________________
The subway was crowded. I didn't care. I stood in the swaying car with my hand wrapped around the strap and my mind somewhere else entirely. The way he had kissed me this morning. The way he said my name. The way he sat on the edge of my bed and waited for me to be ready.
I pulled out my phone.
Me: On my way back.
Someone Very Important: I know.
Me: How do you always know?
Someone Very Important: You text at the same time every day.
I stared at the screen. He had noticed that. He had noticed that I texted him when I got on the train. That I texted him when I left the office. That I texted him when I was thinking about him, which was always.
Me: That's creepy.
Someone Very Important: You like it.
Me: I do not.
Someone Very Important: You're smiling.
I looked up. Caught my reflection in the dark window of the carriage.
I was smiling.
Me: Shut up.
Someone Very Important: Walk faster and do it yourself.
A blush spread across my cheeks. The doors opened and I walked faster.
____________________________________
The door was unlocked. It was always unlocked now, because he was always here, and I had stopped being afraid of coming home to an empty apartment.
I stepped inside and the smell hit me. Something warm. Something rich. Something that made my stomach clench with hunger I hadn't known I was carrying.
He was at the stove.
He was always at the stove. Or the counter. Or the couch. Or my bed. He was always somewhere in my apartment, taking up space, making it his, making it ours.
He turned when I came in. His eyes moved over me-the bag on my shoulder, the flush on my cheeks from walking too fast, the smile I hadn't bothered to hide.
"You're back."
I dropped my bag by the door. Kicked off my shoes. Crossed the kitchen and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my face into his back.
"I'm back," I said.
He was still for a moment. Then his hand came down and covered mine, holding it there.
"Long day?"
I shook my head against his back. "Good day."
He turned in my arms. His hands found my waist, pulled me closer, and I tilted my face up to look at him.
"What's for dinner?" I asked.
He looked down at me. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were warm.
"Sit," he said. "You'll see."
I sat.
He put a plate in front of me. Something that smelled like rosemary and garlic and time. The kind of food people made when they were cooking for someone they wanted to keep.
I looked up at him.
"You made this?"
"I made this."
"From scratch?"
"The sauce is from scratch."
I picked up my fork. Took a bite. Closed my eyes.
When I opened them, he was watching me.
"This is really good," I said.
"I know."
"Cocky."
"Confident."
I laughed. He sat across from me with his own plate, and we ate in the quiet that had become ours.