Page 33 of Fractured Loyalties
He's wearing a black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed to his forearms. A watch gleams faintly beneath the cuff. His back is to me, but I see the tension in his shoulders. The restraint. The calculation.
“Are you always this quiet in the morning?” I ask.
He turns.
And smiles.
He gestures to the mug in his hand, then to the one resting on the counter beside him. “Made you one. It’s strong.”
I cross the kitchen slowly, bare feet silent on the cool wood. When I reach the counter, I pick up the mug—both hands around it for warmth more than caffeine. My fingers brush his. He doesn’t move.
“Thanks,” I say. Then I take a sip. It’s rich. Bitter. Ground with intention. Like everything else he touches.
He studies me for a moment. Not the way most men do—scanning or evaluating. He watches me like he’s waiting for me to say something I haven’t decided on yet.
I shift my weight and nod toward the windows. “It’s beautiful out there.”
The view spills open across the back wall: pale cliffs in the distance, low morning mist clinging to the horizon, the ocean beyond it rolling slow and constant. I wonder what it must feel like to own this much stillness.
“It’s the only thing that quiets my head,” he says, joining me at the edge of the glass.
We stand in silence. Not awkward, but tentative. Like we’re trying not to disturb the fragile thread spun between last night and whatever this morning is supposed to be.
I speak first. “You said you rarely sleep.”
He nods. “My mind doesn’t know when to shut off.”
“And last night?”
“I didn’t sleep,” he says. “I just…listened to you breathe.”
It should be unnerving. It should make my spine lock and my instincts scream.
But instead, I feel heat crawl across my collarbone, low and slow.
“Do you always watch people like that?”
“Only you.”
I look down into my coffee. “You really need to work on your filters when saying things like that.”
His voice lowers. “You really don’t want me to.”
I glance up, meet his eyes. The air shifts.
I want to change the subject. I need to. So I ask the one question I’ve been circling since yesterday.
“What happens now?”
He leans against the counter. “Now we let Caleb show his hand.”
My jaw tightens. “He always has the advantage. He plays dirty.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“And what about when he does show up?”
“Then I'll end it.”
