I gave a half-shrug. “Some. Your sofa bed’s surprisingly comfortable.”
“I know,” Theo said. “I had to test it. For guests.”
I smiled faintly. “You get many of those?”
Theo gazed at me. “Define ‘many.’”
“More than one?”
Theo arched his eyebrows. “Then no.”
I laughed before I could stop myself, and the sound seemed to surprise Theo as much as it did me. The air felt less stiff for a heartbeat, as if we’d stumbled into something almost easy.
Then Theo cleared his throat. “Coffee? It’s instant, but don’t let that put you off. It’s good. Life is too short for bad coffee.”
“Coffee would be great.”
Theo busied himself with pouring another mug. “You take sugar with it, right?”
The question felt like an echo of the previous night. I swallowed and nodded. “Still do.”
Theo didn’t look at me when he stirred it in, and I couldn’t look away. The way his fingers moved, precise and practiced, made my pulse stutter again. Everything about Theo was too controlled, too clean, and one thought dominated my mind.
What would it take to unravel that control?
Then I noticed something.
Theo was avoiding my gaze.
Shit. He’s changed his mind already.
Theo pushed the mug across the counter without looking in my direction. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
“Breakfast?”
“I can grab something later,” I said quickly. I didn’t trust myself to sit across from Theo while I ate toast, seeing thatthroat, those hands, the curve of his mouth around a sip of coffee?—
I shut that thought down hard.
Theo nodded, seeming relieved. “Suit yourself. I’ve got rehearsal notes to go through before I start work.” He turned toward the small table by the armchair, where his laptop sat open beside a neat stack of sheets. The light fell across his back, outlining him in soft gold.
I blew on my coffee, watching him move, and hated myself for how easy it was to get lost in the view.
I took a sip. Too hot. I didn’t care.
Theo’s concentration was a physical thing. He leaned over the laptop, his lips pursed, his brow furrowed, tapping his pen absently against the table. His shirt stretched just enough when he reached for a sheet of paper that I forgot what words were for a moment.
I wanted to draw him again. Not that I hadn’t already done it a hundred times in my head. Theo in grayscale: tension lines around his eyes, the curve of his wrist where precision met control. I wondered if Theo would ever let me.
Somewhere, hidden in a cardboard box, was the drawing I’d done that day.
Theday.
“You can use the shower,” Theo said suddenly, without turning his head.
I blinked. “Right. Thanks.” I set the mug down too fast, sloshing coffee on the counter, and scrambled for a paper towel before Theo could move. “Sorry?—”