Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Lila
Ipad down the hallway in socked feet, wrapped in an oversized cardigan that makes me look like a sad beige marshmallow. My hair is a mess. My head feels foggy, like my brain spent the night running laps without telling me.
I didn’t expect to sleep after yesterday. After the paperwork-wedding. After the new reality with a legal seal and a man on my couch.
But I do sleep.
Not well. Not deeply. More like drifting in and out.
The strange part is that what helps is the sound of Cam breathing from across my room.
Steady. Low. Unbothered.
Like a metronome for my nervous system.
Which is deeply inconvenient.
As I approach the kitchen, I brace for the usual penthouse silence. The kind that feels expensive and lonely at the same time. Silence and the low hum of security systems doing their electronic vigil.
Instead, I freeze in the doorway.
Cam stands at the counter with his back to me.
Broad shoulders. Messy sleep hair. A soft gray T-shirt and sweatpants. He looks… normal. Like a man who fits in my kitchen.
He reaches for a mug with the easy confidence of someone who hasn’t spent years tiptoeing around his own life.
Then I smell the coffee.
My coffee.
Not generic office-drip. Not hot brown regret.
The rich, nutty scent of my exact blend. The one I keep stocked like emergency medicine.
My throat tightens.
I forgot what it’s like to wake up and not be alone.
I stand there too long, unsure what to do with my hands, my face, my entire existence. Domestic moments sneak up on you.
Cam doesn’t turn when he speaks.
“Morning.”
His tone is steady. Calm. Like we didn’t get married hours ago. Like last night didn’t happen. Like he isn’t a stranger who slept a few feet away from me because I asked him not to leave.
I swallow. “Morning.”
It’s wildly insufficient, but it’s all I’ve got.
He lifts the mug, checks something, sets it down again like this is routine.
This is my kitchen. My home. My sanctuary, now containing a very large, very quiet new human element who apparently knows where the mugs are.
I inch forward, one cautious step, like sudden movement might break the moment.
The room feels different with him in it.
Not louder. Not intrusive.
Just… grounded.
Cam finally turns, holding out a mug like this is the most normal thing in the world.
I recognize it instantly.
It's not the sleek white ones Sasha insists photograph better. It’s the navy ceramic one with the tiny chip on the rim. The one I reach for on anxious days. The one that feels sturdier in my hands, like it won’t judge me if I need to sit on the floor and spiral for a minute.
My brain short-circuits.
“You… made me coffee?” I ask, which is deeply stupid given the steam rising between us.
He shrugs. “You were up half the night. Figured you’d need it.”
His voice is deeper in the morning. Rough around the edges. Not sleepy, exactly, but unguarded. It settles into me in a way I don’t like because it feels too close to comfort.
I step forward and take the mug carefully. Our fingers don’t touch.
And I shouldn't want them to. But I notice anyway.
The heat sinks into my palms immediately.
I asked him to sleep on my couch, not recalibrate my nervous system.
I inhale.
Perfect.
The smell alone loosens something in my chest. The blend is exactly right. Not too bitter. Not watered down. He even added creamer. Not much. Just enough.
I frown at the mug like it betrayed me.
“How did you know?” I murmur.
“Lucky guess,” he says.
That’s it.
No explanation. No defense. No attempt to impress me with the effort.
No one has ever paid attention to the quiet things.
I take a sip to hide my reaction.
It tastes like relief.
“Thanks,” I say.
He nods and turns back to the counter, giving me space without saying a word. I notice how careful he is with lines. With distance.
I move to one of the barstools. Slow. Deliberate.
Cam stays on the opposite side of the island.
He pulls out breakfast ingredients. Fruit. Bread. Eggs. Nothing fancy. Nothing performative. "Would you like breakfast?"
I watch him crack eggs with one hand and feel an irrational spike of appreciation, which is annoying because basic competence should not be attractive.
“You don't have to make me breakfast,” I say, lifting the mug again.
“Didn’t seem right to leave you on your own this morning.”
The words land softly.
My throat tightens anyway.
Kindness is dangerous.
He slides a plate toward me. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Fruit.
I eye it suspiciously.
“You cook?” I ask.
“I can follow instructions and not burn things,” he says. “It’s not a personality trait.”
“That’s disappointing. I was hoping for a tragic culinary backstory.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Sorry to let you down.”
The exchange is small.
We eat in silence. Not sharp. Not awkward.
Comfortable.
Cam doesn’t watch me. Doesn’t push conversation. He occupies space like a mountain—solid, steady, not demanding attention.
I can’t remember the last time a man didn’t want something in return for decency.
Cam wants nothing from me.
At least, nothing he’s asking for.
My phone buzzes against the counter, sharp and sudden.
Tessa—ERS
Checking in after the ceremony. How’s the morning going? We’ll need a wellness update.
Another message follows immediately.
How’s Cam adjusting to the space? And how are you doing?
There it is.
The reminder that this morning is monitored. Assessed.
I type back quickly.
We’re fine. Calm. No issues.
I set the phone facedown.
“Everything okay?” Cam asks.
“Yeah. Just ERS checking in.”
He makes a low sound. “Right. Makes sense.”
I lift the mug again even though it’s empty.
Habit. Comfort. Avoidance.
The ceramic is warm from my hands now. Cam moves quietly behind me, unobtrusive but present.
No man has ever learned my coffee order without being told. My ex barely noticed when I changed my hair.
But Cam walked into my life and paid attention.
And that’s a problem.
He didn’t do this to impress me.
He just showed up.
I turn back to the counter, pulse steady but loud in my ears.
If he can make me feel like this without trying…
How am I supposed to keep my heart locked away?