“Morning,” I say.
Her gaze snags on me—sweaty, shirtless, still breathing hard. Her eyes track down, then quickly back up.
Alicia raises a brow, the faintest smirk curving her mouth. “You’re giving that treadmill a workout.”
“Figured I’d make sure your equipment survived the storm.”
“Always thinking of my welfare.”
Her tone’s teasing, but there’s something behind it. I don’t trust myself to look too long at her.
“There’s no damage from the storm outside,” I say, grabbing the towel from the side rail. “Security system never went down. Backup held.”
“Guess I should’ve trusted you,” she says lightly, adjusting the volume on one of the TVs.
“Guess you should’ve stayed where I told you.”
That earns me a look over her shoulder.
“I’m not great at following orders.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve noticed.” Her mouth quirks, and for a second the air shifts. There’s nothing playful in her expression now—just awareness, sharp and magnetic.
She breaks the stare first, taking a long drink from her water bottle.
Alicia Morgan doesn’t break eye contact—she wins it. Which means something just rattled her.
“You want breakfast?”
“I was gonna make you something,” I say. “Figured you earned it after surviving the blackout.”
“Coffee and heroism. Hard to beat that combo.”
“I do my best work in emergencies.”
She laughs, soft and real, and the sound goes straight through me. I should head into my room, grab a shower, reset the morning. Instead, I find myself leaning against the doorframe, unwilling to move.
“You always this put together on a Sunday morning?” I ask.
“You always this sweaty before coffee?”
“That depends. You always watch three news channels at once?”
“Helps me get all sides of the story.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The music overhead fills the space between us.
She tugs one earbud free, her voice quieter now. “Last night… Thanks for hanging out.”
“Wasn’t a big deal.”
“It felt like one,” she says. Her gaze lifts to meet mine again. “For a minute there, I thought…” Her lips part, like she has more to say.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. If she’s going to finish that sentence, I’m not going to be the reason she doesn’t.
The silence stretches with a charge, the kind that feels like it could ignite if either of us moved an inch closer.
The left screen flashes red—breaking news. The moment shatters.