Chapter Forty-Two
Morning After
Clare
The following morning, the coffee shop Mitchell takes me to is the kind of place I’d walk past a dozen times without noticing—tucked between a dry cleaner and a bookstore, with mismatched chairs and the smell of something baking that makes your mouth water before you’re even through the door.
I’m wearing his sweatshirt over yesterday’s jeans, my hair still messy from sleep and his hands, and I should feel self-conscious. Instead, I feel claimed in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.
“Two coffees and whatever those are,” Mitchell tells the barista, pointing to a display case filled with muffins the size of softballs.
“Blueberry lemon,” she says with a smile that lingers just a beat too long on his face. “Fresh this morning.”
He doesn’t seem to notice her interest—his attention is on me, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand where our fingers are intertwined. It’s a simple touch that shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but somehow feels more intimate than everything we did last night.
“You okay?” he asks, catching something in my expression.
“Perfect.” And I am, which is the problem.
We take our coffee and muffins and head toward the farmers’ market that sprawls across the next block. It’s the kind of Saturday morning ritual I’ve never had—wandering betweenstalls selling organic vegetables and handmade soaps, Mitchell’s hand warm in mine like this is something we do every week.
“Try this,” he says, offering me a sample of honey from a vendor who looks like she stepped out of a wholesome lifestyle blog.
The sweetness bursts across my tongue, rich and complex, and I make an appreciative sound that makes his eyes darken slightly.
“Good?” he asks, his voice rougher than honey samples warrant.
“Very.”
He buys a jar without asking, like he’s already planning future mornings where we’ll eat toast drizzled with this honey, drink coffee, and read the paper in comfortable silence.
The thought should scare me. Instead, it makes something warm and dangerous curl inside me.
We wander past booths selling flowers and fresh bread, and I find myself cataloging details I shouldn’t be noticing. The way he stops to pet every dog we encounter. The casual way he pulls me closer when the crowd thickens, protective without being possessive.
This doesn’t feel like any first date I’ve ever been on. It feels like something deeper, more significant. Like the beginning of something that could change everything.
And that terrifies me.
“Should we head back?” I ask when we reach the end of the market, my voice coming out more strained than I intended. “I should probably get heading home, get out of your hair.”
The words taste like lies even as I say them. Because the last thing I want is to leave, to go back to my empty apartment and pretend last night was just a hookup that got out of hand.
Mitchell stops walking so abruptly I nearly run into him. He turns to face me right there on the busy sidewalk, people flowing around us like we’re stones in a stream.
“I’m sorry, I’m not normally a stage five clinger, it’s just...” He runs his free hand through his hair, that nervous tell I’ve learned to recognize. “I just…don’t know how to put this into words.”
Neither do I. Because what we’re talking about isn’t just extending a hookup or having a lazy Saturday together. We’re talking about letting this thing between us become real, which was never part of the deal.
“Would it scare you if I told you I didn’t want you to go?” he asks, his voice quiet but intense.
My heart does something complicated against my ribs. “Mitchell—”
Something that could destroy me if it goes wrong.
But looking at him—hair messed from sleep and my fingers, eyes vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache—I realize I’m already in too deep to protect myself now.
“It would scare me,” I admit. “But I don’t want to go yet either.”