You wake to the scent of something warm and sharp: coffee, bacon and the faintest trace of his cologne, soaked into the pillow beneath your cheek. The sheets are still warm from where he laid beside you, but he’s gone now. The space where he should be feels too large. Your body aches in the quiet way it does when you’ve slept too deeply. Or maybe it’s from the way his hands had held you last night, like he didn’t trust the world not to take you from him while he blinked. You remember fingers curled tight at your waist, breath against your throat, his voice in the dark, low and strained: “You stay. Just for tonight.”

You hadn’t answered. Now it’s morning, and you’re in his bed, in one of his button-downs that hangs off you like it’s trying to pretend it belongs there. You shift under the covers, skin bare beneath the shirt, hem barely grazing the tops of your thighs. You slide out of bed and find him in the kitchen. He’s got his back to you, standing at the stove, jaw tight, sleeves shoved up past his elbows. You pause in the doorway, watching him like he’s something out of a dream that took a sharp left into reality. The shirt you’re wearing slips a little off one shoulder. “Smells good,” you say.

Mark doesn’t turn right away. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.” His voice is low, not quite casual. “Didn’t want to wake you. Figured I’d bribe you into staying with food.”

You take a slow step into the room, then another. “You don’t strike me as the breakfast-in-bed type.”

“I’m not,” he says, turning finally. His eyes find you bare-legged, wrapped in his shirt, and freeze on you like he’s been holding his breath all morning. He stares like he hasn’t decided if this is real yet. You walk toward him, lazy and quiet, and his eyes follow the movement like he’s tracking something dangerous. You reach out, pluck a slice of bacon from the plate, and pop it into your mouth.

Mark watches the way your lips close around it. His jaw flexes. “Kitchen’s hot,” you murmur. “Or is that just you?”

He gives a short breath of a laugh, dark and strained. “You’re gonna make me burn something.”

You step in closer, just enough to press your palms against his chest. His heart is fast. You can feel it beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. Yours, now. Or… something like it. “You’re really cooking breakfast for me?” you whisper. “After last night?”

Mark’s hand comes up, slow, fingers grazing the edge of your jaw, rough thumb dragging down the corner of your lip like he’s checking if it’s really you. His other hand moves to your hip, sliding over the shirt and down to where it just barely covers your ass. “I haven’t done this before,” he admits, voice raw against your ear.

“What, cooking?”

“No.” His mouth grazes your temple. “Letting someone stay.”

You tilt your head back just enough to look at him. “And now?”

His hand tightens slightly on your waist. “Now I want to keep you here.”