Chapter 10
ALOIS
Iwoke before the light had fully settled into the room.
That was normal.
What wasn’t was everything else.
The ceiling sat lower than it should have, the air warmer, carrying a faint scent I didn’t recognize at first—something clean, something soft, something that didn’t belong in the places I usually slept.
For a moment, I stayed where I was, still enough to listen.
There was no distant traffic bleeding through concrete walls, no muffled voices in a hallway, no mechanical rhythm of a building that never fully shut down.
Just quiet.
And the steady, uneven sound of breathing that wasn’t mine.
I opened my eyes and let them adjust without moving, taking in the space piece by piece.
The partial wall that didn’t quite divide the room, the narrow stretch of floor, the lamp on the nightstand still dark.
The bed beneath me shifted slightly as I sat up, the movement enough to confirm what I already knew.
Right.
Her apartment.
The events of the day before settled back into place without resistance. The meeting. The decision. The arrangement that had been made whether either of us wanted it or not.
Her.
I turned my head toward the other side of the bed. It was empty. Not recently vacated, either. The sheets were undisturbed, the space already cooled.
I stood, running a hand over the back of my neck as I stepped away from the bed, my body already adjusting, already mapping the space again without conscious thought. The couch came into view first.
Then her.
Bea was curled into the corner like she had run out of options and settled for the only one left, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other pulled close to her chest. The blanket barely covered her, twisted around her legs in a way that made it obvious she had not slept well.
The cat was with her, pressed against the back of her knees, completely at ease.
I paused there longer than I needed to.
Her breathing was shallow, uneven enough to confirm what the position already suggested. The couch was too small. Too firm. Not built for anything resembling rest.
I glanced back toward the bed, then returned my attention to her. She had said she would take the couch. I had told her not to. She had done it anyway.
I exhaled once, more habit than reaction, and turned toward the kitchen. The space efficient in the way small things had to be, everything within reach without effort. I opened the cabinets without hesitation, scanning quickly, then moved to the refrigerator.
Eggs. Bread. Fruit. Easy.
I set what I needed on the counter and moved through it without noise I didn’t need to make, muscle memory carrying most of it. Pan. Heat. Controlled. Precise. The quiet of the apartment shifted as the burner warmed, replacing stillness with something steady and deliberate.
Behind me, fabric shifted. A small sound followed—half movement, half breath. The cat moved first, landing lightly on the floor before padding closer, stopping just short of the kitchen as if drawing a line I was not meant to cross.
I flipped the eggs and then turned.
Bea was sitting up, barely, one hand braced against the couch as she tried to orient herself. Her hair was a mess, one side matted from the way she had slept, the other falling loose around her face. Her eyes were still unfocused, working to catch up.
She looked at me. Then at the kitchen. Then back at me again. It took a second for recognition to settle in. When it did, her posture shifted, subtle but immediate, like she had just remembered everything at once.
“You’re up,” she croaked, voice steeped in sleep.
I glanced at her briefly before returning my attention to the pan. “Morning, sweet cheeks. Want some eggs before our debut?”
Bea’s dark eyes narrowed slightly as she pushed herself fully upright, rolling her shoulder once like she was shaking off the stiffness from the night. The blanket slipped from her legs, pooling at her feet, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“What did you just call me?” she growled.
I threw my hands up in the air, immediate surrender. “Noted. Do not tease Bea pre-coffee, apparently.”
The way she didn’t miss a beat was a little too intriguing. “I don’t drink coffee,” she bit. “And we don’t do cute. This is a business arrangement.”
“Doesn’t change the original question. Do you want some eggs?” I let my stare settle into hers. I could see the tension building. There were buttons being pressed in all the wrong ways. The reaction of oil and water trying to mix.
“I didn’t ask you to make me breakfast.”
“No,” I agreed. “You didn’t.”
“Then why—”
“Because you’ll be useless in an hour if you don’t eat,” I cut in, setting the plate down on the counter in front of her.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Then she exhaled, long and controlled, like she was deciding which battle to pick first. “Right,” she snapped. “Because clearly you’re an expert on what I need.”
“I am,” I declared evenly, “when what you need is obvious.”
Her eyes flashed back to mine. There it was again. That edge.
Not insecurity. Not panic.
Pushback.
She straightened a fraction, pulling herself up into it. “Let’s get something very clear right now,” she warned, voice losing the last of its sleep-softened edges. “You don’t get to walk in here and decide how this works.”
I leaned one hand against the counter, not crowding her, not backing off either. “I’m not deciding anything. I’m reacting to what you already did.”
“Which was—what? Sleeping on my own couch?”
“Making a bad call,” I corrected.
Her lips pressed together. “It was my call to make.”
“And now it’s my problem when you can’t keep up later.”
I watched it register. Watched the way she didn’t flinch from it.
Interesting.
“I will keep up,” she bit. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“I’m not worried about you,” I replied. Not entirely true. But it was close enough.
Her chin lifted just slightly. “Good.”
For a second, we just stood there, the space between us charged in a way that had nothing to do with the situation we’d been handed and everything to do with how quickly she had shifted.
Last night, she had been scrambling. This morning, she was steady.
Tired, yes. But steady.
I picked up the fork and tapped it once against the edge of the plate before sliding it closer to her. “Eat.”
She looked down at it, then back up at me again, something unreadable passing through her expression.
“You’re rude,” she snickered.
“I’m efficient.”
“You’re condescending.”
“You’re on three hours of sleep and pretending that’s sustainable.”
That almost got a reaction. Almost. Instead, she let out a quiet breath through her nose and reached for the fork.
Small victory.
She took a bite, chewing slowly, her eyes never leaving mine like she didn’t trust me not to say something else the second she looked away.
“You’re not as intimidating as everyone makes you out to be,” she snickered after a second.
“That’s disappointing.”
That did it. A flicker of something sharper crossed her face, quick and gone, replaced by something steadier. Determined. I watched her for a second longer than necessary. She didn’t look away this time. Didn’t fold. Didn’t retreat back into that uncertain version of herself from last night.
Whatever pressure she was under, whatever had put her in that room and kept her there when she should have walked out, it wasn’t making her smaller. It was doing the opposite. That was going to be a problem.
I let my attention drift to my own plate, wishing I had my coffee maker and imported beans. The small tin of aged Folders was not helping my edge soften to my handler.
“If you don’t drink coffee, what do you drink?” The simple question was bitter rolling from my tongue but I needed something to fill the quiet before my thoughts had a chance to attack.
She blinked while swallowing a mouthful of strawberry. “Chai or English Breakfast.” She paused with a simple shrug. “Tea of any kind, really.”
I nodded once, filing that away like it mattered. It didn’t. But it wasn’t useless either.
An alarm sounded, blaring from Bea’s cell vibrating on the coffee table. Letting out a deep sigh, she got up to grab it and silence the noise in a few swift motions.
“We need to go,” she groaned, with a lilt sounded childish. As if it was the first bell in grade school, instead of something entirely more precarious.
I scoffed and twirled my finger around dramatically. “I think you’ve missed a few steps, young lady.”
Her hands flew to her hair, shoulders sinking instantly. “Give me fifteen minutes. Call the car. I’ll be ready soon.”
“No woman can go from…” I trailed off, almost thinking better of what I was about to say but fuck it. “You look like shit on toast.”
With a few steps, she was almost nose to nose with me where I sat on a barstool, mug of awful java in one hand. “At least I can clean up and look presentable. You on the other hand...”
Before she could finish, I started to stand, a reminder of exactly who I was in this situation and that my patience was wearing thin.
“Fuck it,” she huffed, turning on her heels. “You’re impossible.” The bathroom door slammed, the sound of cracking wood not lost on me.
I was only able to read a few pages of a paperback before Bea was zooming into the kitchen. She picked up her cat, cuddled him to her chest for a second, whispering something I could not hear.
There was something so tender about the moment, I almost felt like I was intruding—which in all truth, I was.
Letting out a soft cough, I asked, “What’s his name?”
Her softened gaze drifted to me. “Bento,” she cooed, smooshing her face into the feline’s neck.
“Is he friendly?” The question felt like an olive branch. Hopefully, Bea noticed it too.
“Only to me, really. I’m surprised he has been out at all since you’ve gotten here.”