Page 24 of Cupid's Beau

He catches my hand, brings it to his lips. For a moment, I think he might say something. Instead, he rolls away and sits up.

“I should make coffee.”

I watch him pull on sweatpants and pad to the bathroom, shoulders tense. The warmth from moments ago dissipates like morning fog, leaving me uncertain.

By the time I make it downstairs Jack’s in the kitchen, focused on the coffee maker. Fuck, his walls are back up - I can see it in the rigid line of his spine, the careful distance he maintains.

“Jack?”

“Coffee’s almost ready.” His voice is cold. Nothing like the man who growled my name into my pussy last night.

His phone buzzes on the counter. He’s been ignoring calls sincewe arrived, but this time he grabs it, stepping on the deck to answer.

I watch through the window as he paces, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Even with the glass between us, I can feel the tension emanating from every line of his body.

The coffee maker beeps. I pour two mugs, but by the time I turn around, Jack’s heading upstairs.

“Work call,” he says without looking at me. “Need to handle some things.”

I stand in the kitchen holding two cooling mugs of coffee, trying to reconcile this distant stranger with the man who held me like I was precious just hours ago. The man who danced with me, who kissed me like he never wanted to stop, who whispered things against my skin that made me shiver. The man who was inside me most of last night…

Maybe this is why his relationships never last. Maybe this is what happens the morning after - the walls go up, the warmth dies, and he retreats into himself until whoever he’s with gives up and leaves.

The thought sits heavy in my stomach as I dump his coffee in the sink.

Through the window, I watch the waves crash against the rocky shore. The sky is steel gray, matching my mood. I should write - I have deadlines, after all - but the thought of trying to focus on my manuscript right now seems impossible.

His footsteps on the stairs make me turn. He’s dressed now, in dark jeans and a sweater. The casual intimacy of this morningfeels like a long lost dream.

“Listen,” Jack starts, not quite meeting my eyes. “There are some things I need to handle. Project deadlines, meetings…”

“Sure.” I firm my voice. “I should work too, anyway.”

He nods, already pulling out his phone. “There’s food in the fridge. Make yourself at home.”

Make yourself at home. Like I’m a fucking houseguest he’s leaving to run errands. Not someone he spent the night with, someone he kissed like he meant it, someone he…

“Jack.” My voice stops him at the bottom of the stairs. “Are we going to talk about last night?” My tone is stone-cold.

His shoulders tense. For a moment, I think he might turn around, might actually say something. Instead, he just mumbles, “Later,” and disappears up the stairs.

By evening, I’ve given up pretending to write and migrated to the sofa with a book I’m also not really reading. Jack’s been upstairs all day, the sound of his voice occasionally drifting down as he takes call after call.

When he finally emerges, the sun is setting over the ocean. He looks tired, his hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it.

“Hungry?” he asks, heading to the kitchen. “I can make something.”

“Sure.” I set my book down, matching his cold energy. “Need help?”

He shakes his head, already pulling ingredients from the fridge. I watch him work, the efficient movement of his hands as he chops vegetables, the way his muscles flex under his sweater. Everything about him is a contradiction - the tenderness of last night versus this careful distance, the way he moves around me like he’s afraid to get too close. And I hate that despite all that my body still responds to his proximity.

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of cooking and waves against the shore.

“The press is still camped outside my building,” Jack finally says. “And yours.”

“Is that what all the calls were about?”

He nods, focused on the stove. “Among other things.”

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