Chapter 2: Morning After Negotiations
The rich, dark scent of coffee finally dragged Aidan out of his bedroom fortress. He’d paced for twenty minutes, trying to assemble a casual demeanor like assembling IKEA furniture—the instructions were confusing and he was pretty sure he was missing a crucial screw. He pulled on a fresh shirt, took a steadying breath, and ventured into the shared space.
The kitchen was awash in golden, late-morning light. Catriona stood at the counter, her back to him, humming something tuneless. She was still wearing his t-shirt. It was worn soft, the band logo cracked and faded, and it draped over the curves of her body in a way that felt profoundly, intimately violating. It was just a shirt. But it was his shirt, and she was bare underneath it, and her fiery hair was damp from the shower, clinging to her neck.
He froze in the doorway.
She turned, sensing him. A slow, easy smile touched her lips. “Coffee’s just done. You take yours black, right? I remember from the move-in day chat. Observant, me.”
“Right. Black. Thanks.” His voice was a little rough. He cleared his throat and moved to the cupboard, focusing intensely on selecting a mug—the blue one with the chip on the handle. A safe, ceramic distraction.
The silence stretched, filled only by the gurgle of the coffee maker and the soft tap of a spoon against ceramic as she stirred sugar into her own cup. It was a domestic sound, completely at odds with the electric crackle in the air between them.
“So,” she said, leaning a hip against the counter. “About the elephant in the room. Or, you know, the sleepwalker in the bed.”
Aidan kept his eyes on the stream of dark coffee filling his mug. “We don’t have to… it’s fine. Really.”
“It’s not fine, it’s weird. I get it.” She took a sip, watching him over the rim. “And I’m sorry for the ambush. Waking up like that is… intense. For both parties, I’d imagine.”
He finally looked at her. There was no mockery in her expression now, just a candid openness. It was somehow more disarming. “It was a surprise,” he admitted, a weak laugh escaping him. “I thought I was dreaming about a very friendly space heater.”
She grinned. “A friendly, naked space heater. Top-of-the-line model.” Her green eyes held his, sparking with that same boldness from earlier. “Look, I’m just going to say it. The weirdness is already here. We can tiptoe around it for weeks, or we can just… address it.”
“Address it.” Aidan repeated the words like he was testing their weight.
“Yeah.” She set her mug down. “The chemistry is fucking palpable, Aidan. You felt it. I sure did. Waking up like that… it wasn’t just confusing. It was hot.”
The bluntness of it hit him like a physical touch. He had no response. His mind went blank and white.
“I’m not looking for a relationship,” she continued, her tone pragmatic, as if discussing internet bills. “I’m chaotic. My work hours are insane, I sleepwalk into people’s beds, and I leave paintbrushes in the butter. But this?” She gestured vaguely between them. “This tension is a waste. It’s gonna make sharing a bathroom super awkward.”
“What are you suggesting?” he asked, though he already knew. His pulse was throbbing in his ears.
“A… distraction. A release valve.” She took a step closer. The scent of her soap—clean, herbal—mixed with the coffee aroma. “No strings. Just an understanding between roommates that if the mood strikes, and we’re both consenting and annoyingly awake… we could maybe work some of this out. Clear the air.”
Aidan’s mouth was dry. He looked at her, really looked. At the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the confident set of her mouth, the way his old shirt hung off one smooth shoulder. He remembered the devastating, sleep-soft weight of her on top of him, the heat of her skin. His own body was responding traitorously, a low, insistent thrum of want that made a mockery of his carefully constructed calm.
“You’re serious,” he breathed.
“Deadly.” She didn’t smile. Her gaze was steady, challenging. “Think about it. No pressure. But for the record, my imagination’s been working overtime since I walked out of your room. And it’s not about sleepwalking anymore.”
She picked up her mug, gave him a last, lingering look that traveled down his body and back up, slow and deliberate. Then she padded past him, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. He stood rooted, clutching his hot mug, listening as her door closed softly down the hall.
The kitchen felt enormous and silent. Sunlight glinted off the chrome of the coffee pot. He was painfully, undeniably hard, the fabric of his jeans suddenly too tight, too rough. He set the mug down with a clatter, his hands unsteady.
No strings. A release valve.
Her words circled in his head, mixing with the ghost of her laughter, the memory of her green eyes looking up at him from his pillow. He stared at the closed door to her room, a tumult of shock and wild, thrilling possibility tightening his chest. The day ahead, his work, his normal life—it all seemed distant and blurry, obscured by the vivid, uncompromising reality of Catriona’s proposition.