The late morning sun cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, spilling gold across the rumpled silk sheets. Hades Charon’s side of the bed was cold.

His brow furrowed even before his eyes opened. The space next to him was empty, the faint indentation of your small frame the only evidence you’d been there at all. A low, grumbling sound rumbled in his chest. He hated waking up without you. Hated the cold sheets, the quiet, the goddamn absence of your warmth pressed against his side.

With a groan that was pure, unfiltered morning grumpiness, he pushed himself up. His hair, the color of rich earth, was a disheveled mess, and his sharp jaw was tight with lingering sleep and immediate irritation. He ran a hand over his face, the muscles in his bare arms and shoulders flexing. He didn’t bother with a shirt, just stepped into a pair of black sweatpants that hung low on his hips.

His long, bare feet were silent on the heated marble floors as he prowled toward the kitchen. He found you there, perched on one of the high barstools at the massive island, looking unfairly pretty in one of his old band t-shirts. The hem just brushed the tops of your slender thighs.

His gaze immediately dropped to your waist. The shirt was loose, but he could still picture the exact curve, the way his large hands spanned it completely. His mouth watered.

But first, business.

He grunted a non-response to your soft “morning,” his morning voice a low, gravelly rasp. “What’s to eat?” He asked, already yanking open the stainless steel refrigerator door. He scanned the shelves, containers of prepped food his chef had made, fresh fruit, vegetables.

He turned, one large hand still gripping the fridge handle, and pinned you with a stare that was equal parts sleepy and stern. Those dark brown eyes, still heavy-lidded, missed nothing. “What did you eat for breakfast?”

You shifted on the stool, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. He saw you hesitate, saw the flash of something... guilt, maybe, or just the knowledge of what was coming cross your pretty face.

“Just… coffee,” You said, the word barely a mumble.

The refrigerator door shut with a sharp, decisive thump that echoed in the quiet kitchen. The air thickened.

Hades turned to face you fully, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The movement made the muscles in his forearms tighten, the veins standing out. His expression was carved from granite, but his eyes… his eyes had gone dark with a specific, possessive kind of fire.

“Coffee,” Hades repeated, the single word dripping with disbelief and a slow-burning anger. His voice was low, controlled, and all the more dangerous for it. It was the tone he used when the stock market fucked him, or when a business partner tried to pull one over on him. Hearing it directed at something as simple as your breakfast made your stomach flip.

Hades pushed off from the fridge and stalked toward you, each step measured, predatory. He stopped when his legs were flush against the barstool, caging you in. He just stood there, looming, all 6’3 of him radiating frustrated, grumpy energy.

“The fuck you mean, coffee?” He finally bit out, his voice a rough snarl. He uncrossed his arms just to reach out, his thumb and forefinger gripping your chin, tilting your face up to his. His touch was firm, possessive. “You think that’s food, pretty girl? You think that’s gonna do anything but eat a hole in your empty stomach?”

He released your chin, only to let his hand slide down, down, until his palm settled on the curve of your waist. He squeezed, a reflexive, unconscious gesture, as if reassuring himself you were still there, still real. So fucking tiny under his hand.

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