She didn’t answer right away.

She just looked at him—really looked—her hands splayed against his chest, her weight balanced over him like she was trying to memorize how it felt to be wanted this much without any need to earn it. His eyes were still crinkled from smiling, lazy and luminous beneath the tangle of his dark hair.

And she knew, without question, that no one had ever looked at her like this before.

Not on set. Not on a red carpet. Not in the middle of one of those glimmering, godless industry parties where everyone performed affection like a trick mirror. Julian wasn’t performing anything. He never had.

He looked at her like she was inevitable.

Isla’s throat tightened around something quiet and certain. Her fingers curled slightly against the warm skin just beneath his collarbone.

“You’re right,” she said finally, her voice low but steady. “You do look adorable right now.”

She dipped her head slightly, letting her temple brush his for a beat before pulling back again so she could hold his gaze.

“And I mean it, Julian,” she added, her tone softening without losing any weight. “From now on… I’ll never leave any bed you’re in without waking you first.”

Her eyes didn’t flinch from his—clear, unwavering.

“Not even if you’re dead asleep. Not even if you really need the rest. I’ll still wake you.” A faint smile ghosted across her lips. “Even if it’s just a touch. Just so you know I was there.”

Because he deserved that. He deserved every goodbye and every good morning and every anchoring touch in between. He deserved not to flinch at the silence. Not to second-guess the comfort of a body beside him, only to find it gone the next time he opened his eyes.

Her palm slid up to cup the side of his neck, thumb grazing the curve of his jaw as if sealing the promise. She didn’t care how sentimental it sounded. He mattered more than her pride now.

And still—when he said stay right here, something in her reflexively sparked with the impulse to tease, to pivot, to push back just enough to keep things even.

But she didn’t.

Because the truth was, she wanted to stay. And maybe more importantly, she wanted him to know it.

So instead of resisting, she let herself relax fully onto him, her legs tangling naturally with his beneath the duvet, her cheek settling into the warm space above his heart. Her arm draped around his ribs like it had been waiting for this particular fit all along.

“There,” she murmured. “Satisfied?”

He gave a hum in response—low and content—but she didn’t move.

She liked the view too. All that sleepy warmth wrapped around her, the barest scratch of stubble beneath her fingers, the chest rising steady and sure beneath her ear. He was a walking contradiction—sharp angles and gentle touches. Shadows and light.

And she was still discovering him. Still peeling him back, layer by layer, and finding something worth loving in every one.

After a long, quiet stretch, her voice returned—drier this time, but laced through with unmistakable fondness.

“You do realize this makes you my first proper Saturday morning,” she drawled, eyes still closed. “No call times. No pre-dawn hair and makeup. Just this… awful, terrible, devastating man demanding that I stay and admire him.”

She sighed dramatically, shifting slightly so her chin could rest against his chest.

“Honestly. The things I let you get away with.”

But the corners of her mouth curved up as she said it, and she didn’t budge an inch.

The air in the room seemed to settle, heavy and sweet, as her words landed. Julian felt the impact of them in the center of his chest, right where her heart was currently beating against his ribs.

He had expected a deflection. He had expected her to roll her eyes at his request to stay, or to make a joke about his neediness. He hadn’t expected this—a vow, spoken with such quiet, devastating clarity, that it felt less like a morning murmur and more like a binding contract.

I’ll never leave any bed you’re in without waking you first.

The knot of old, familiar tension that lived permanently between his shoulder blades unraveled, dissolved by the sheer certainty in her eyes. It was a small thing to anyone else, perhaps—a tap on the shoulder, a kiss goodbye—but to him, it was the difference between being a placeholder and being a partner.

One of his hands, large and warm, began a slow, rhythmic glide up the length of her spine. He pressed his palm flat against her lower back, sliding it upward over the curve of her ribs, feeling the delicate architecture of her shifting beneath his touch, before tracing the path back down again. It was a meditative motion, attentive and reverent, as if he were trying to memorize the map of her through his fingertips.

“I knew you’d agree eventually,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and a thick, undeniable affection. “I am adorable. It’s a burden, really, but I carry it well.”

But the teasing didn’t reach his eyes. They remained dark and serious, fixed on hers. He waited until she dipped her head, until she pulled back to ensure he understood the depth of her promise.

When she said she would wake him, even if he was dead asleep, just to let him know she was there, his throat worked on a swallow. He shifted his hand again, fingers splaying wide across her shoulder blades to press her closer, needing to eliminate the friction of air between them.

“Good,” he said, the word coming out softer than he intended, stripped of all pretension. “Because I’m going to hold you to that, Isla. I don’t want to wake up wondering where you went. I want the goodbye. Every single time.”
When she finally collapsed against him, tangling her legs with his and draping her arm over his ribs, a profound sense of peace washed over him. He felt the tension leave her body, matching the surrender of his own.

“Satisfied?” she asked.

“More than satisfied,” he answered, the vibration of his voice rumbling against her cheek where it rested on his chest. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

He kept his hand moving, a continuous, soothing stroke from her waist to her neck, his fingers grazing the nape of her neck before trailing back down. He listened to her complain about her first proper Saturday, about the lack of call times and the tragedy of being forced to admire him.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest, low and rich. He turned his head, pressing a lingering kiss into the hair at the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and the warm, sleepy smell of her skin.

“You make it sound like torture,” he countered, his tone laced with a lazy, triumphant warmth. “But I think you secretly like it. No cameras, no marks to hit. Just me.”

He paused, his hand coming to rest centrally on her back, holding her there as if he could anchor them both in this specific second in time.

“And you’re right,” he added, a smile audible in his voice now. “I am a devastating man. But considering I’m currently being used as a very expensive pillow by the most beautiful woman in the world... I think I’m the one letting you get away with things.”

He squeezed her gently, shifting slightly to accommodate her chin on his chest so he could look down at her properly.

“Happy Saturday, Isla.”

He lay there for a long moment, simply breathing her in, feeling the rare and precious weight of her settling into his bones. The silence in the room wasn't empty; it was full of dust motes dancing in the sunbeams and the steady, synchronized rhythm of their breathing.

His hand never stopped its motion. It was a rhythmic, hypnotic glide—palm warm and heavy, fingers slightly spread—tracking the line of her spine. Up to the delicate nape of her neck, where his thumb brushed the soft hair there, and then a slow, dragging slide back down to the curve of her waist. He wanted her to feel it in her sleep; he wanted the sensation of his hand on her back to be the thing that tethered her to the mattress.

"You say 'awful' and 'devastating,'" he murmured, the words vibrating deep in his chest where her cheek was pressed. "But I think you're just not used to a co-star who takes his role as 'Professional Mattress' this seriously. I’m committed to the craft, Isla."

He shifted his legs slightly, locking them more securely around hers, trapping her warmth. He loved the contradiction of her: the sharp-tongued, brilliant woman who could command a set, now reduced to this soft, boneless weight in his arms.

"So," he continued, his voice dropping to a lower, huskier register, intimate and lazy. "Since this is your first proper Saturday... what are the rules? Do we lie here until we starve? do I need to carry you to the kitchen? Or are you expecting breakfast in bed to make up for the sheer hardship of being forced to cuddle with me?"

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, skin-to-skin now, tracing the ridges of her lower ribs with a touch that was light and reverence-filled.

"Because I'll do it," he said, and the teasing lilt in his voice gave way to simple, unadorned truth. "I'll make the coffee. I'll burn the toast. Whatever you want. As long as you don't actually get up for another hour."

He tilted his chin down, trying to catch a glimpse of her face, his expression open and unguardedly fond.

"Tell me what you need, Isla. The day is yours. I'm just the scenery."

Isla drew in a breath like she was preparing for something monumental. “It is torture,” she said solemnly, the weight of it sinking into her voice like she was giving testimony before a jury. “You—looking like that—so early in the morning? While I’m forced to endure it with absolutely no buffers, no coffee, and a body that is still in calorie jail? Cruelty. Actual cruelty.”

She let her hand drift idly across his chest, fingers brushing through the sparse hair there with something that could be mistaken for nonchalance if not for the fond gleam in her eyes. “The worst part is how smug you are about it. As if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. You, with your lashes and your perfectly rumpled hair and your body heat. It’s egregious.”

But her voice softened at the edges, a laugh catching in her throat before she could hold it back. She glanced up at him, her expression fond and unguarded now, her hand settling over his heart.

“And I like it,” she said simply, with no dramatic flair this time. “God help me, I like it. I like this. I like you.” Her brows lifted slightly. “And I have absolutely no intention of keeping that to myself.”

The admission wasn’t grand or sweeping—it was worse. It was honest. It was immediate. It was real.

She shifted slightly, her bare legs tangling more deliberately with his as she sank deeper into the cradle of his body, her cheek returning to its home against his chest.

“You are committed to the craft,” she agreed, sighing dramatically as if pained by the truth. “And if I were a better person, I’d feel guilty about exploiting your dedication.”

Her thumb grazed his ribcage, a soft, absent pattern as she stared out across the room that was slowly beginning to blush with morning. “But unfortunately for you, I’m currently being punished by a nutritionist whose idea of indulgence is adding lemon to hot water. So I’ll be starving either way.”

She let the beat hang just long enough before adding, dryly, “But I suppose your arms could use a break after last night’s… extensive lifting.”

Then she finally tilted her head up, nose brushing along his collarbone. “You, on the other hand, should eat something. Preferably something that isn’t a protein bar you found in a jacket pocket from 2019.”

She squinted at him theatrically, lifting her head off his chest. “Tell me you haven’t.”

A beat.

“No, don’t tell me. I want plausible deniability.”

She nudged him once with her knee, shifting until she could meet his gaze again. “I’ll stay here,” she said, sweet and matter-of-fact. “You bring me tea. Something warm and illegal and English to start my very first proper Saturday off right.”

She didn’t need to add that she liked this version of the world—quiet and soft and stripped down to nothing but skin and affection. She didn’t need to say it out loud for it to be true.

The look in her eyes said it anyway. That if she had to be wrecked by anything in this life, this—him—was the only kind she’d sign up for.

Julian’s chest rumbled with a low, vibrating laugh that he didn’t bother to suppress. It traveled from his sternum right into her cheek, a physical confirmation of his amusement. He didn't pull away; instead, he tightened his arm around her waist, his hand splaying wide over the curve of her hip, thumb rubbing a slow, possessive circle into the skin there.

"Torture," he repeated, the word rolling around his mouth like he was tasting a fine wine. "If this is what torture looks like—me, lying here, being objectified by a woman who claims to be suffering while simultaneously petting me—then I think the definition has changed since I was in school."

He shifted his chin down, catching her gaze with eyes that were crinkled at the corners, bright with morning light and blatant affection.

"And for the record," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, rough with sleep and sincerity, "the smugness isn’t an act. It’s just the natural byproduct of waking up with you. I’d say I’m sorry for it, but..." He leaned in, brushing a kiss to her forehead, lingering there. "I’m not. I like this too, Isla. I like you. Dangerous amounts."

He let that hang in the air for a moment, solid and undeniable, before a wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth regarding her comment on his stamina.

"As for my arms..." He flexed the arm she was currently resting on, just a subtle shift of muscle beneath her cheek. "They’re holding up just fine. You’re not exactly heavy lifting, though you are..." He paused, searching for the right word, his eyes darkening slightly as he recalled the night before. "...demanding. But I think I’ve proven I have the endurance for the 'extensive' nature of the work. If you’re worried about my recovery, you’re welcome to massage the muscles later. I won't object."

When she brought up the protein bar, he actually looked offended, though the glint in his eyes gave him away.

"That was one time," he defended, though he didn't deny the existence of said jacket-pocket sustenance. "And it was a vintage 2020, thank you very much. But no. Today, we are not doing survival rations."

He shifted, reluctantly disentangling his legs from hers so he could sit up, though he kept one hand on her thigh, unwilling to break contact completely. He ran a hand through his hair, making it even more 'perfectly rumpled,' before looking down at her.

"I can do better than a protein bar. I have eggs—real ones, not powdered. I have sourdough that I didn't bake but purchased from a very pretentious bakery, so you know it's good. And I might even have some smoked salmon, if you think your nutritionist won't call the police on us for the sodium content."

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of her hips, trapping her against the mattress for one last second.

"As for the tea..." He kissed the tip of her nose. "You want the 'illegal' stuff? I can do that. I’ll make you a proper Builder’s tea. Strong, dark, hot enough to strip the paint off a wall, with a splash of milk. The kind that wakes up your ancestors. Does that sound like a sufficient start to your Saturday?"

“Torture does mean different things in different countries, you know,” Isla said loftily, keeping her voice clipped and academic, as if she were delivering a thesis rather than lounging naked beneath a duvet with the man who’d spent the night thoroughly ruining her for anyone else. “In England, for instance, it includes being forced to look at a man with cheekbones like yours before sunrise while starving on a nutritionist-approved schedule of despair.”

She tilted her head just enough to catch his eye. “Whereas in Sweden, I assume torture means being offered only two types of pickled herring.”

But when he said he liked her—dangerous amounts—her breath snagged, quiet and involuntary. She didn’t show it. Didn’t flinch or soften or pretend not to hear.

She just let her gaze linger on his face a beat too long, let her fingers drag slow and deliberate over the skin beneath her touch. She felt it ripple through him. Felt the weight of what he said settle into her ribs, heavy in the best way.

Dangerous amounts.

Not sweet. Not safe. Real.

Good. Because she had no interest in being liked in moderation.

When he flexed under her, teasing her about the night before, she didn’t even try to argue. “Demanding?” she echoed, mock-offended, one brow arching. “Darling, I’ve always been demanding. The difference is, you’re the first one who hasn’t whined about it.”

She pushed herself up slightly onto one elbow, the duvet slipping low across her chest. “And if massaging your arms is what’s required to keep you functional, then fine,” she said with exaggerated reluctance, her tone all drama and indulgence. “I suppose I’ll find a way to live with it. What kind of partner would I be if I didn’t put my hands all over you at the first available opportunity?”

As he started to sit up, she let her fingers drift across his back, featherlight, tracing the line of his spine from the nape of his neck down to where the duvet gathered around his waist. Her touch wasn’t meant to seduce—it was grounding. Quiet. Territorial in the way only softness can be.

She took in the loft around them—the exposed beams, the industrial windows still dark with early January morning, the faint glow of city lights just beginning to pale. And then her eyes drifted back to him.

“You went shopping,” she said, more observation than question. “Yesterday. While I was on set.” A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “That explains the bakery bag I saw peeking out of your rucksack like contraband.”

He listed the breakfast items like he was unveiling a feast for royalty, and she listened with an indulgent smile, equal parts touched and amused.

But the moment he mentioned Builder’s tea, she gasped—loud and dramatic, one hand flying to her chest like he’d insulted her lineage.

“Builder’s tea?” she repeated, wide-eyed with mock horror. “Julian, I’m an actress. I wear custom corsetry and pretend to murder people for a living. You cannot possibly think I have the constitution for something so violent.”

She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “It will strip the paint off the walls. I’ve seen it happen.”

And then, in a softer tone, eyes fixed on his, she added, “But yes. That sounds perfect.”

Because it wasn’t really about the tea. It was about him in her kitchen. Him making something warm while she waited in bed. Him knowing what she needed before she asked.

He’d stayed. And now he was making breakfast. In her loft. On her Saturday.

And it wasn’t performance or pretense—it was theirs.

“You make the tea,” she said, voice gentler now as she laid back into the pillows. “I’ll stay here and practice being difficult. I know my strengths.”

She watched him for a moment longer, chest aching in that new, delicious way. Like she was watching something settle into place without ever having to force it. And even though the sun hadn’t risen yet, she felt it—

That slow, golden certainty of something real, curling in her chest like warmth before dawn.

"I think you underestimate the Swedes," he countered, his voice rich with amusement. "The third option is usually a salty licorice that tastes like despair and ammonium chloride. So, really, the herring is the mercy kill. Count your blessings."

Julian laughed, a low, rumble of sound that vibrated against her ribs where they were pressed together. He didn’t make a move to get up just yet. Instead, he shifted, rolling onto his side to face her fully, propping his head up on his hand while his other arm draped heavily, possessively over her waist, anchoring her to the mattress.

"A delicate constitution?" he repeated, his eyebrows shooting up with skeptical amusement. "Isla, please. I’ve seen you work. I’ve watched you stand in four-inch heels on cobblestones for twelve hours straight in freezing rain, pretending to be in love with a man you despise, all while wearing a corset that probably violates several human rights conventions. You are not delicate."

He grazed his knuckles down the side of her cheek, his touch tender despite his teasing tone. "You are a machine wrapped in silk. You’re made of steel and spite and very expensive moisturizer. A cup of Builder’s tea isn’t going to take you out. It’s fuel. Consider it performance-enhancing drugs for the 'practicing being difficult' portion of your day."

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he glanced toward the kitchen area and then back to her, clearly weighing the promise of food against the comfort of the bed.

"And regarding the 'contraband'..." He smirked, thumbing the strap of the duvet lower to press a kiss to her bare shoulder. "I saw your fridge yesterday. It contained a bottle of vintage champagne, three shriveled lemons, and a face mask. I realized if I wanted to survive the night without resorting to cannibalism, I needed to take tactical action. The bakery bag isn’t contraband; it’s humanitarian aid."

He settled back down, pulling her leg over his hip so they were tangled together again, seemingly in no rush to leave the warmth.

"So, here is the deal," he murmured, his face close enough that his breath ghosted over her lips. "I will make the tea. I will even add an extra splash of milk so it doesn't 'strip the paint,' you dramatic creature. I will make the eggs—real ones, not powdered. And in exchange, you can practice being difficult all you want."

He grinned, a charming, boyish expression that took years off his face. "Honestly? I’m looking forward to it. Easy is boring. And I have a feeling you’re going to be very entertaining when you’ve had a little caffeine."

He leaned in, brushing his nose against hers. "Now, do I get a kiss for the road, or do I have to earn that with the sourdough?"

Isla tilted her head, lips curving into a slow, pleased smile as she listened to him make his case like a man arguing for his life in a very charming court of law. She let the silence stretch just long enough to make him wonder if she was about to dismantle him entirely.

“Humanitarian aid,” she echoed lightly, one eyebrow lifting. “That’s generous phrasing for someone who absolutely went rogue.”

Her fingers traced idle, teasing lines along his side, as if mapping familiar territory she’d only just been given the keys to. There was a quiet, lingering warmth between them—unrushed, settled. The kind that made the world feel like it had clicked into place sometime during the night and decided to stay that way.

“For what it’s worth,” she added, voice tipped with mock solemnity, “the fridge situation was… situational. I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

Her gaze flicked to his mouth, then back to his eyes. Amused. Fond. Just a little dangerous.

“You turning up like a very tall, opinionated surprise wasn’t on the schedule,” she went on. “So really, this is on you. I had plans. Solo plans. Champagne-adjacent plans.”

She shifted closer, her leg tightening around his hip, her nose brushing his as she spoke again. “The fact that you decided to stay alive via baked goods is impressive, though. Resourceful. Very on-brand.”

When he asked about the kiss, she didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned in slowly, deliberately, letting the moment hover until it felt like a shared secret rather than a question.

“You don’t earn kisses,” she murmured, brushing her lips against his once—soft, lingering, unmistakably hers. “You just… get them.”

She pulled back just enough to smile at him, her thumb grazing his cheek. “That one was because you’re being smug and helpful and unbearably pleased with yourself.”

A beat.

“The next one,” she added, kissing him again, slower this time, “is because you stayed.”

When she finally eased away, she rested her forehead against his, breathing him in like this—this closeness—was something she’d been missing long before she knew how to name it.

“Go,” she said gently. “Make the tea. Make the eggs. Be a hero.”

Her smile sharpened just a touch.

“And Julian?”

He hummed.

“If the sourdough is as good as you’re implying, I might let you keep using my kitchen unsupervised.”

She paused.

“Might.”

Julian let out a low, rough laugh, the sound vibrating in his chest as her words settled over him. Because you stayed. That was the one that landed. It hooked somewhere deep behind his ribs, making him feel ten feet tall and completely disarmed all at once.

"A conditional pass on the kitchen," he mused, a boyish, lopsided grin splitting his face. "I can work with that. And as for the 'champagne-adjacent plans'..." He kissed the tip of her nose, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I’ll owe you a bottle. Or a vineyard. We’ll negotiate terms later."

He untangled himself from her with a reluctant groan, the loss of her warmth an immediate offense to his system, and padded out of the bedroom.

The kitchen was exactly as he’d left it: a crime scene of emptiness that he was currently rectifying. He moved with the easy, practiced efficiency of a man who knew his way around a stove, humming a tuneless melody under his breath. He filled the kettle and set it to boil, the click of the switch loud in the quiet morning.

While the water heated, he went to work. He cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork until they were a uniform pale yellow, adding a pinch of salt he’d found in the back of a cupboard. He sliced the sourdough thick—generous, rustic slabs that were begging for butter—and dropped them into the toaster.

He felt ridiculously pleased with himself. There was something absurdly domestic about standing in a half-dressed state in Isla’s kitchen, executing a breakfast mission like it was a covert op. He watched the steam rise from the mugs as he poured the water over the tea bags, waiting for the precise shade of steep before fishing them out.

Once the toast popped and the eggs were scrambled to soft, creamy perfection, he loaded everything onto a tray he found leaning against the backsplash. He arranged it with an unnecessary amount of flair—napkins folded, silverware aligned.

Isla stayed where she was when he left—mostly out of stubbornness, partly because the bed still smelled like him and she wasn’t ready to disturb that yet. She listened to his footsteps fade down the hall, the soft clatter of movement in the kitchen following a moment later. The loft felt different without his weight beside her. Not empty. Just… quieter. Like a room that had exhaled and was waiting to inhale again.

She stretched out on her stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow, telling herself—very reasonably—that she could manage a few minutes alone. That she was capable of resting. Of letting him do something nice without hovering like an unsupervised cat.

She counted.

One.

Two.

Three—

Her gaze slid to the doorway.

By the time she reached ten, she was already sitting up.

With a quiet, conspiratorial grin, Isla slipped out of bed and padded into the hallway, careful with each step. She leaned just enough around the corner to see him at the stove, back to her, shoulders relaxed, hair still a little rumpled from sleep. He was focused—gentle with it. Like he was handling something important rather than just eggs and toast.

The sight of him there—in her space, moving like he belonged—hit her low and warm in the chest. Not a rush. Something steadier. Something that felt earned.

She smiled to herself, then remembered the bag.

Careful not to make a sound, she crept fully into the hall, snagged it where he’d left it, and carried it back toward the bedroom. Halfway there, she paused, glancing at the couch, then the bed.

The hallway had served its purpose. The limbo of maybe-this, maybe-that was officially closed.

She took the bag all the way into the bedroom, set it down, and immediately went hunting—finding one of his button-downs folded inside. She tugged it on without ceremony, the fabric soft and faintly warm, sleeves swallowing her hands. In the mirror, she paused, brushing her hair back, splashing water on her face, doing just enough to look like herself again—herself, but wrapped in him.

That done, she headed back down the hall, bare feet silent on the floor.

She stepped into the kitchen just as he finished arranging the tray, the timing so perfect it felt intentional even though she knew it wasn’t. She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely, watching him for a beat.

“I tried,” she said lightly, lips curving. “I really did.”

He turned.

She pushed off the frame and crossed the room, the shirt swinging around her thighs, eyes bright with mischief and something softer underneath. “But apparently I have a one-minute tolerance for being away from you.”

She stopped just in front of him, gaze flicking to the tray and back. “Also,” she added, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “I had to make sure you weren’t being dramatic with the plating.”

A pause. Then, gentler—

“Couldn’t wait another minute.”

Julian turned slowly, the ceramic mugs on the tray giving a faint, melodic clink as he shifted his weight.

He had been prepared to make a grand re-entry—a "Room Service has arrived" bit that he was already workshopping in his head. But the moment he saw her, the joke died in his throat, replaced instantly by a grin that felt too wide for his face.

She was wearing his shirt.
It was the slate-blue button-down he’d tossed in his bag as an afterthought, and on her, it looked ridiculous in the best possible way. The shoulder seams were halfway down her upper arms, the hem skimmed dangerously high on her thighs, and the sleeves were rolled up in a messy attempt to liberate her hands that only made her look smaller, softer.

He looked her up and down, shameless and deliberate, before his eyes snapped back to hers, bright with amusement.

"A one-minute tolerance?" he repeated, his voice rich with suppressed laughter. "That is clinically significant separation anxiety, Isla. We might need to look into that."

He adjusted his grip on the tray, tilting it slightly to show off his handiwork.

"And for the record, this isn't 'dramatic plating.' This is artistry. Notice the symmetrical alignment of the silverware? The optimal toast triangulation? You’re critiquing a master at work."

He took a step toward her, closing the distance until the edge of the tray was the only thing separating them. He let his gaze drop to the shirt again, his expression shifting from teasing to something warmer, something that looked a lot like pride.

"Although," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, appreciative hum, "I have to admit, you’ve completely upstaged the eggs. That shirt has been in my closet for two years, and it has never looked that good. I might have to retire it. It’s yours now. I can’t follow that act."

He leaned forward over the tray, stealing a quick, hard kiss—tasting of mint and the promise of the morning.

"I couldn't wait either," he admitted against her lips, the boyish charm softening into simple honesty. "I was staring at the toaster wishing it would hurry the hell up so I could get back to you. Now, move it, boss. If this sourdough gets cold after I spent so much time perfectly browning it, I’m going to be heartbroken."

He nudged her hip gently with his elbow, since his hands were currently occupied with the delicate balance of breakfast.

"Go on," he urged, steering her around with a playful bump. "March. Lead the way. The structural integrity of the buttered toast is at stake, and I refuse to let my culinary magnum opus turn soggy because we were too busy making heart eyes in the hallway."

He followed her back down the hall, and he couldn’t help the way his gaze lingered on the back of her—or rather, the back of his shirt on her. The tails of the slate-blue fabric swayed just above her knees with every step, teasing the smooth skin of her thighs. It was a domestic kind of torture, seeing her wrapped up in his clothes, walking into her bedroom like she owned the place, the shirt, and him.

God, he was in trouble.

When they reached the bed, he breezed past her to deposit the tray on the mattress, checking one last time that the mugs were stable on the uneven surface.

"Safe," he declared, straightening up and patting the space beside the tray. "Sit. Eat. Worship the chef."

He didn't move to the other side of the bed. Instead, as she settled back against the headboard, he sat on the edge of the mattress right next to her hip, boxing her in. He reached for one of the mugs, the steam curling up in the cool morning air, and held it out to her handle-first.

"Tea first," he instructed, his tone brisk but his eyes soft. "Earl Grey. Two sugars, splash of milk. I took a wild guess based on the contents of your fridge and the fact that you seem like someone who appreciates the classics but has a secret sweet tooth."

He watched her take it, his fingers brushing hers, before he picked up a slice of the sourdough toast. It was golden-brown, glistening with just enough butter to be decadent without being greasy. He held it up, inspecting it critically in the light.

"Look at that color," he murmured, flashing her a quick, dimpled grin. "That is the golden ratio of toasting. If this doesn't earn me a permanent key to the apartment, I don't know what will."

He tore off a corner of the toast and held it out to her lips, not waiting for her to reach for it.

"Open up," he said softly, the teasing dropping away for a second. "You need fuel if you're going to keep up with my separation anxiety."