The house is quiet in that heavy, living way—like Rainmaker is holding its breath right along with me. From down the hall, water runs. The shower’s running. Ozzy. My stomach does an obnoxious flip.
I stand and pad toward the kitchen, mostly to put physical distance between me and the bed where I did something mortifying like ask for comfort.
Morning light spills through big windows, soft and golden, painting the trees and rolling hills outside. The kitchen is stocked like someone prepared for the apocalypse and then invited friends over: cabinets bursting, pantry full, fridge humming with quiet abundance.
I open the fridge door. And freeze. Eggs. Real ones, not the powdered kind. Cartons of berries. Yogurt in glass jars. Sealed chicken breasts. Bottled water standing in neat rows like soldiers. Fresh vegetables still crisp. A loaf of bread that smells faintly of yeast. Almond butter. Oat milk. Regular milk. Orange juice. I almost want to cry at the sight. Almost.
My throat closes. For weeks I counted crackers, rationed sips of water, measured exactly how much hunger I could hide beforesomeone noticed and decided to punish me for it. Now I'm staring at choices like a normal person. I shut the door too fast and press my forehead to the cool stainless steel. Breathe. Breakfast. I can do breakfast. Something healthy. Something that says I'm rebuilding, not falling apart.
I pull out a bowl, oats, honey, chia seeds, a banana, expensive-looking peanut butter. I'm measuring oatmeal like I'm on a cooking show calledTrauma But Make It Nutritiouswhen the water cuts off.
My heart kicks hard. I stare at the dry oats in the bowl. I am not waiting for him. I am not listening for his footsteps. I’m a grown woman making breakfast. I will not picture Ozzy naked right now. Nope. I won’t. Ugh, too late. The image bursts behind my eyelids, and I try to push the thought away.
The hallway door opens, and I freeze. Footsteps travel closer as my heart pounds through my ears. Then Ozzy steps into the kitchen. In nothing but a towel.
Oh. My. God.
Water beads on his chest, trails down the ridges of his stomach like gravity is personally invested. His skin is tan and his shoulders are broad enough to block out the world. His arms are corded and unfair. And his hair—his mohawk is down, damp strands falling forward, darker, softer, turning him from sharp-edged rescuer into something even more dangerous: a rockstar who might also ruin your enemies and then kiss you after.
I forget how to breathe. He stops too, his dark eyes widening. For one long, electric second we just stare at each other like we've been caught red-handed. I'm holding a measuring cup ofoats. He's holding the knot of the towel at his hip like it's on the verge of mutiny.
His gaze drags over me—slow, hot, shameless—and it's eight in the morning and I'm still in yesterday's borrowed T-shirt and leggings and trauma, but the way he looks at me says none of that matters.
My face burns white hot. His jaw flexes like he's biting back words.
I open my mouth. My brain supplies exactly one syllable. "Oh." Brilliant.
Ozzy's lips part. He looks like he might actually speak. Then his eyes drop to my hands, to the bowl, to the spoon. To breakfast. Something shifts in his face—softens, reins in. He clears his throat and takes one deliberate step back, like he's forcing distance between us. "Morning," he says, voice gravel-rough from sleep.
"Morning," I manage, trying and failing not to catalog every inch of skin still glistening.
He holds my gaze one heartbeat longer. Then he turns and practically bolts down the hallway. Like a man running from temptation. Or from the fear he'll do something stupid.
I stand frozen, spoon hovering, pulse hammering like I sprinted a mile. "Okay," I mutter to the empty kitchen. "Cool. Totally normal." My traitor brain tries to imagine him toweling off, pulling on clothes. My body votes enthusiastically for continuing the spiral. I smack the spoon against the bowl. "Stop."
A few minutes later he comes back. Fully dressed: black T-shirt stretched across his chest, dark joggers, boots. Mohawkrestored, sharp and confident again, like the damp, vulnerable version never existed. He leans a hip against the counter like he belongs in my mornings. He eyes the bowl. "You cooking?"
"Trying," I say. "I'm not sure I remember how to be a person."
His gaze lifts to my face, gentler now. "You're doing good."
I exhale. "Oatmeal. Fruit. Like someone who does yoga and has their life together."
His mouth twitches. "You do yoga?"
"No."
"Then why oatmeal?"
I lift my chin. "Because I'm malnourished and I'm trying to add in calories and nutrition."
Ozzy's smile flashes, quick and real. "That’s smart, Salem."
"Thank you," I mutter. Before I can overthink it, I set out two bowls. Slice banana, scatter berries, drizzle honey, spoon peanut butter on top.
I glance at him. "You want peanut butter?"
He pauses, eyes glinting. "Is that a euphemism?"