The smell of coffee drifted up from downstairs—a rich, dark promise that there was a world beyond my own spiraling thoughts. My stomach growled on cue.
I hesitated for half a second, then ducked back into my room instead of following it, shutting the door with a soft click. If I was going to face Wes Vaughn and the ghost of an almost-kiss, I could at least do it wearing a bra.
Leggings, thick socks, a soft sweater. I ran my fingers through my hair until it looked less like I’d been rolling around thinking about his mouth and more like a person who had itmoderately together. A swipe of mascara. ChapStick. Nothing dramatic. Just a little light feminine armor.
Unfortunately, none of it did a thing to quiet the low hum under my skin.
When the scent of coffee finally proved stronger than my nerves, I wrapped my hand around the banister and headed downstairs, following it toward the kitchen—and whatever version of Wes Vaughn was waiting for me there.
Downstairs looked. . . different.
I hit the bottom step and blinked, trying to make sense of it. The living room usually greeted me like a cautionary tale—blanket heap, empty cups, a scatter of mail and wrappers.
This morning, it looked almost like a living space again.
The blanket was folded over the arm of the couch instead of lying in a defeated tangle. The coffee table was mostly clear—no wrappers, no empty bottles, just a small stack of mail squared off and the remote lined up like it belonged there. The dent in the cushion where Wes slept was still there, but it looked less like a crater and more like proof of use, not surrender.
Something in my chest loosened a fraction.
The smell of coffee pulled me toward the kitchen—rich and dark with a stripe of sweetness running through it.
Wes sat at the table with his forearms braced on either side of a small white plate. Two cinnamon rolls sat in the middle, steam feathering up from under a crooked drizzle of icing. A mug waited at the place across from him, already poured.
He looked up when I stepped into the doorway.
My brain didn’t supply words, just impressions. His jaw was clean-shaven, the sharp line of it at odds with the softnessaround his eyes. His hair was still mussed from sleep, sticking up a little like he’d towel dried it and given up halfway through. The shadows under his eyes weren’t as deep. He looked ... rested. Less hollowed out.
My body responded before my thoughts caught up—heat sliding low in my belly, a quick, traitorous flutter as last night’s almost-kiss replayed in high definition.
His hand on my cheek. His breath. The space that hadn’t stayed space for very long.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough and low in a way that did not help. The corner of his mouth twitched, like his face hadn’t quite remembered how to commit to a smile but was considering it. “Coffee’s there. The cinnamon rolls might be questionable.”
My throat went tight. “You made these?”
“‘Made’ is overstating it.” He glanced down at the plate, then back at me. “Came in a can. I twisted. The oven did the rest.”
“It still counts.” My lips curved. “They look good. They’re exactly how my mom used to make them.”
His gaze tracked the movement of my mouth. Heat crept up my neck, and I pretended to be extremely interested in the chair.
“I saved you the center one. It’s always the best.” Wes was staring at his plate as my grin widened.
I stacked three cinnamon rolls onto a plate and slid into the seat across from him. The mug was warm in my hands, the first sip of coffee hitting my system like permission to breathe. The cinnamon roll was soft when I tore off a piece, still warm in the middle. I popped it into my mouth and had to fight a frankly obscene sound trying to crawl up my throat.
“They okay?” Wes asked, a hint of something wry in his tone.
“Dangerously okay,” I said once I’d swallowed. “I fear if you don’t act fast, I’ll eat them all myself.”
One side of his mouth kicked up, quick and fleeting, but it was there. “They’re all yours.”
The quiet that settled after that wasn’t the same brittle silence that used to fill this house. It felt fuller somehow. My heart was still doing that nervous tap dance, but there was a thread of something else woven through it now. Something that felt suspiciously like hope.
Last night we’d stood in the kitchen breathing the same charged air, half a second away from making a very bad decision.
This morning he’d slept in his own bed, cleaned his living room, and was feeding me breakfast from a can like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I finished my breakfast slower than I needed to, stalling without admitting that was what I was doing. When my plate was empty and my mug mostly drained, the old instinct kicked in—take yourself upstairs, retreat, hide away in logistics and to-do lists.