I woke up to the smell of coffee.
For a brief second, I thought it was a dream. A sensory echo of a time when Sunday mornings meant tangled limbs, quiet laughter, and Henry pressing kisses along my collarbone before tiptoeing to the kitchen.
And when I opened my eyes, the ache that always came with that memory settled in my chest.
But then I heard movement in the kitchen. Calm. Collected.
Christian.
He was still here.
Padding out of bed, I found him in the kitchen in grey joggers and a black tee, barefoot, pouring coffee into two mugs like he belonged here.
There was no need to ask why he hadn't left. Some part of me already knew.
He looked over his shoulder, eyes lingering on me just a moment too long before gesturing toward a mug. "Cream and two sugars, right?"
"How do you know that?"
"I updated your file in here." He said, pointing to his head.
I gave a half-smile.
We didn't talk much after that. Not at first.
Christian passed me the mug, and I took it, grateful.
