Chapter 4: Breakfast Confessions
The stillness in her bedroom was a physical thing, a warm, heavy blanket over them. Aidan traced the line of the fox tattoo on her ribcage with his fingertips. Her skin pebbled under his touch.
“I’m parched,” Catriona murmured, her voice rough. She stretched, a long, lazy movement that made the sheet dip dangerously low on her hips. “And I need caffeine before my brain tries to have a thought.”
She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. Without a hint of self-consciousness, she stood, wrapped the fabric around herself like a toga, and tossed his jeans at him. “Kitchen. Now. I make terrible coffee, but I make it fast.”
He dressed, watching her pad barefoot out of the room, the sheet trailing behind her. The domesticity of it was more intimate than the sex had been. He followed the sound of her moving through the apartment.
The kitchen was small, bathed in the buttery light of a single pendant lamp. It was exactly as she’d left it that morning—two chipped mugs by the sink, a scattering of breadcrumbs near the toaster, the faint, acrid scent of a forgotten roast. She was already at the counter, filling the carafe with water, her back to him. The sheet slipped off one shoulder, revealing the elegant slope of her neck and a constellation of freckles.
“It started when I was a kid,” she said, as if continuing a conversation. She didn’t turn around. “The sleepwalking. My parents found me in the backyard once, trying to climb the apple tree in my nightgown. They put bells on my door.”
Aidan leaned against the doorframe. “Did it work?”
“For a while. Then I learned to open it silently. Like a tiny, unconscious cat burglar.” She scooped coffee into the filter, her movements efficient. “It gets worse when I’m stressed. Or when my mind’s too full. My last boyfriend… he couldn’t handle it. Said it was creepy. Like sharing a bed with a stranger.”
She said it casually, but Aidan heard the old hurt tucked beneath the words. He moved into the kitchen, standing beside her. “His loss.”
She glanced at him, a quick, searching look. Then she focused on pressing the brew button. The machine gurgled to life. “What about you? Mr. Astronomy Engineer. Any deep, dark secrets? Aside from the obvious anatomical anomaly.”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “No secret sleepwalking. Just… a tendency to overthink. To wait for the perfect alignment of stars before making a move.” He paused, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot. “I moved here after a thing ended. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… quiet. We became roommates who sometimes shared a bed. I didn’t want that again. I’d rather have nothing than the quiet version of something.”
Catriona was quiet for a moment. “Nothing is safer,” she said, almost to herself. She pulled two mugs from the cupboard—one with a cartoon rocket, one stained with permanent paint marks. “But it’s also nothing.”
She poured the coffee, black, and handed him the rocket mug. Their fingers brushed. She didn’t let go immediately. “This morning,” she said, her green eyes holding his. “When I woke up on you. I was embarrassed, sure. But mostly I was… fascinated. I laid there for a minute just thinking, ‘Well, this is a delightful problem to have.’”
He took a sip, the coffee bitter and hot. “A problem?”
“A complication.” She leaned back against the counter, the sheet gaping at her chest. She made no move to adjust it. “I like my life simple, Aidan. Work, fun, no entanglements. You seem like an entanglement.”
“I’m just a guy who failed to buy a locking door knob,” he said, aiming for lightness, but the words fell flat.
“No, you’re not.” She put her mug down with a soft clink. “You’re the guy who knocked on my door anyway. After we agreed not to.”
The truth of it hung between them, mingling with the steam from their coffee. The ‘no strings’ agreement was ashes now. He set his mug down, too. The linoleum was cool under his feet. The flickering bulb above them cast moving shadows across her face.
“Catriona…” he started, but didn’t know how to finish.
She solved it for him. She closed the small distance, her hands coming up to frame his face. Her touch was surprisingly gentle. “Just for now,” she whispered, her breath warm against his lips. “Let’s just be here for now.”
She kissed him. It was nothing like the frantic, hungry kiss from her bed. This was slow, exploratory, a silent conversation. He tasted coffee and a deeper, warmer sweetness that was just her. His hands settled on her hips, the thin cotton of the sheet the only barrier.
She pulled back an inch, her forehead resting against his. “The ‘for now’ is important.”
“I know,” he breathed.
“But right now,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky murmur, “I want you again. I’ve been thinking about it all through that stupid vulnerable conversation.” Her hands slid down his chest, over his stomach, to the button of his jeans. “I want to feel you in this bright, stupid kitchen. I want to see if it’s still… seismic.”
He was already hard for her, achingly so. He helped her push his jeans down, kicking them away. She let the sheet fall from her shoulders. It puddled at their feet, a white circle on the floor.
He lifted her effortlessly, her strong thighs locking around his waist, her back pressing against the edge of the counter. The cabinet knob dug into her spine and she hissed, not in pain, but in sharp awareness. He supported her weight with one arm, the other hand guiding himself into her.
They both groaned as he entered her, a smoother slide this time, her body already welcoming him. He moved slowly, deeply, each thrust pressing her back against the cabinets, making the dishes inside rattle faintly. Her head fell back, her red hair brushing the laminate countertop. The light swung above them, throwing their moving shadows across the fridge, the oven, the forgotten loaf of bread.
“It is,” she gasped, her nails biting into his shoulders. “It’s seismic.”
He lost himself in the rhythm, in the feel of her warm and tight around him, in the sight of her coming apart in the ordinary kitchen light. Her breaths were short, pleading sounds. He captured her mouth, swallowing her cries as her body began to tremble, the internal pulses milking him toward his own climax.
It built slower this time, a deep, rolling wave rather than a crash. When it broke, it was with a low, sustained groan against her neck, his whole body shuddering as he spilled into her. She held him through it, her legs still clamped around him, her own release subsiding into soft, intermittent shivers.
They stayed like that, connected, breathing each other’s air. The coffee machine hissed. A car honked outside. The real world, held at bay for a few minutes, seeped back in.
Carefully, he lowered her until her feet touched the sheet on the floor. She was unsteady, her hands resting on his forearms for balance. They were a mess—naked, sweaty, in a kitchen that smelled of sex and burnt coffee.
Catriona looked at him, her expression soft and utterly transparent for once. There was no boldness, no deflection. Just a naked, complicated wonder that mirrored exactly what he felt in his own chest.
Then she blinked, and a wry smile touched her lips. She patted his chest. “Okay,” she said, her voice returning to its normal, slightly rough cadence. “Now I really need that coffee. It’s probably tar.”
She turned, giving him a perfect view of the fox on her ribs, and reached for her mug.
Aidan stood in the middle of the kitchen, the cold linoleum under his feet, and knew with a sinking, thrilling certainty that simple had just become impossible.