Page 72 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
I wonder if that's what I look like when I sleep. If Jaden sees the same contradiction when he watches me—strength momentarily surrendered, control temporarily abandoned.
The thought of our son propels me from the doorway. I need coffee before he wakes, before this day of playing family continues. Before I have to decide what any of it means.
In the kitchen, muscle memory guides me through familiar motions. Filter. Grounds. Water. The routine unchanged from our marriage, like my body never forgot its place in this space, even as my mind insisted on distance.
I lean against the counter, watching sunrise paint Manhattan in golds and ambers, waiting for the caffeine that might clarify this blurred line between past and present.
Between what was and what might still be.
The coffee machine gurgles to completion. I pour a mug, adding the precise amount of cream that turns the liquid the color of Jakob's eyes when he's?—
I stop myself. This is how it starts. The small surrenders. The romanticizing of details. The softening that preceded every heartbreak I've experienced. Every disappointment.
Every abandonment.
I sip the coffee, letting its bitterness ground me. Remind me that what feels safe is rarely what is safe. That history doesn't simply disappear because of good sex and tender moments and the expression in Jakob's eyes when he watches our son.
When he watches me.
"Mom?"
Jaden stands in the kitchen doorway, hair rumpled from sleep, eyes squinting against morning light. His presence immediately reshapes the space, changes its temperature, its meaning.
"Hey, buddy." I set my mug down, opening my arms. He moves into them without hesitation, that unconscious trust children place in parents before they learn better. "Sleep okay?"
He nods against my chest, still half-dreaming. "Can we have pancakes? Dad promised."
Dad promised.
"Sure." I smooth his hair, buying time, rebuilding composure. "Go brush your teeth first."
He pulls away, the momentary vulnerability of early morning already receding. "Is Dad still sleeping?"
Is Dad still sleeping in your bed?The unasked question hovers, though I might be projecting my own discomfort. Jaden's acceptance of our temporary arrangement has been troublingly complete. As if he's been waiting for this exact scenario—both parents under one roof, sharing spaces and glances and the mundane rhythm of family life.
"I think so," I say, navigating the half-truth. "But I'm sure he'll be up soon."
"Cool." He disappears down the hallway, feet padding against hardwood, leaving me with the ghost of his question and the implications of my answer.
I turn back to the counter, reaching for flour, for eggs, for measuring cups. For the concrete certainty of recipes that deliver consistent results when followed properly. Not like relationships. Not like trust. Not like love.
Those recipes change without warning. Those measurements prove false. Those ingredients spoil when you least expect it.
"Morning."
Jakob's voice behind me stops my breath mid-inhale. My skin tightens at the sound—heat blooming beneath my ribs like something dangerous coming back to life.
I don't turn immediately, needing the extra seconds to compose my face, to regulate my pulse, to remember who I am outside the gravity of his presence.
"Coffee's fresh," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "Jaden's awake. He mentioned pancakes."
"Did he now?" The amusement in his tone pulls me around despite my resolution. He stands in the doorway, hair damp from a shower I didn't hear, wearing sweatpants and a faded T-shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make thinking difficult.
"Apparently you promised."
"I did." He moves into the kitchen with the easy confidence of a man certain of his welcome. Pours coffee into a mug—the black one with the chip on the handle that he always preferred. The one I didn't realize he'd kept. "I keep my promises these days."
The words land with precision, quiet but cutting, disturbing the careful equilibrium of the moment. The implication clear:unlike before.
