Page 36 of Dissonance

Except his clothes are still scattered around my floor.

Reaching for my robe, I pull on the fluffy, oversized one, then head out into the hallway, stopping short when the smell of bacon hits me.

Is he…?

Tightening the tie at my waist, I take the steps down into the split-level kitchen and stop dead.

He’s at my counter. Barefoot, broad-shouldered, wearing my silk navy kimono—the short one with the little cranes all over it—belt tied loosely at his waist, dark underwear visible below the hem where it absolutely does not reach his thighs. He looks ridiculous, flipping bacon with one hand and cracking an egg into the pan with the other, moving around my kitchen like this is…normal. And all I can do is stand in the doorway and stare.

There’s a version of this I know how to handle—him here at night, the charge of it, the heat and history becoming too much that we have no choice but to give in. That I understand. But this? A six-foot-six Scotsman in a crane-print kimono making me breakfast in my kitchen on a Saturday morning? I have absolutely no idea what the hell to do with this.

He turns, catching me looking, and holds up a mug.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough and warm.

“You’re wearing my robe.”

He glances down at himself like he’s noticing it for the first time. “Aye.”

“Isn’t it meant to be the other way around? Me wearing your shirt?”

“If you want to go back up and swap, I wouldn’t say no.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. He looks insufferably unbothered as he turns back to the pan and starts plating up, sliding one across the counter toward me.

That’s what gets me. Not the ridiculous robe, not the bacon crisped exactly right, but the domesticity of it. He holds out the mug when I don’t move.

“You drink it black, right?” he asks. “No sugar.”

Reaching out, I frown. “How did you—”

“You’ve told me before.”

Did I?

Our fingers brush when I take it, sparks scattering down my arm. I wrap both hands around the ceramic, silently sipping, unsure what to do now.

“Eat, Thea.” He nudges the plate closer.

“I’m not used to this,” I say, sliding onto the barstool and staring into the coffee.

“Aye. I figured.”

I glance up and look at him. Really look at him in the morning light, which feels completely different to looking at him in the dark. He’s different like this. Softer around the edges, less…guarded. That composure he carries everywhere has slipped, and what’s underneath is something I don’t have the capacity to unpack right now.

“This doesn’t change anything.” The line comes out automatically. I watch him when I say it, waiting for the raised eyebrow, the are you sure about that? look.

“I know.”

I’m not entirely sure what I wanted from him, only that his agreement sits slightly wrong today. Not because I don’t mean it. I do, I always do. I’ve said it enough times now, but I can’t tell if his acceptance is respect—something I’ve always appreciated, even knowing our resolve is about as strong as wet paper—or if this whole domestic scene playing out in front of me is throwing me off. It’s confusing and unsettling and is making me feel things I will not allow myself to explore.

So why am I put out that he didn’t argue?

“I mean it,” I press anyway because, apparently, I need to hear it again myself. “I’ve got too much going on. Tyler… Cooper… Sip Station’s tour.”

He steps closer, not crowding or touching, but I’m acutely aware that I’m wrapped up like a cocoon, while he’s standing there with his bare chest peeking out of the ridiculous kimono, my fingers itching to trace the hard lines and scars.

“You’re overthinking, lass.”