The smell of sizzling chorizo and strong coffee hit you before your eyes were even fully open. Waking up in a bed that isn’t yours is always a disorienting trip, but waking up in Frankie's bed felt like a specific brand of beautiful chaos.

The memories of the previous night, the low light of the bar, the grit in his voice, and the way he’d practically carried you through his front door, came rushing back. You realized with a jolt of caffeine free adrenaline that you hadn’t just hooked up, you’d stayed the night.

You sat up, cursing under your breath when you couldn’t find your top in the twisted sheets. Giving up, you grabbed Frankie’s discarded grey henley from the floor, tugged it over your head, and padded out into the hallway.

Frankie was in the kitchen. He was half-dressed, wearing nothing but low sweatpants that hugged his hips in a way that should have been illegal. He was focused, sliding a perfectly folded omelet onto a plate next to a stack of tortillas. When he heard your footsteps, he looked up, and a slow, effortless grin spread across his face.

"Morning," he said, his voice still thick with sleep. "You’re up. I was just about to bring this back to the room for you."

You stopped in your tracks, blinking. "Breakfast in bed?"

"That was the plan." He gestured with a spatula toward the small wooden table. "Sit. It’s better when it’s hot."

You hesitated, the confusion clear on your face. This wasn't the "thanks for the fun, there's the door" routine you were expecting. In fact, it was the polar opposite. You tentatively sat down, the oversized shirt swallowing your frame, and watched him pour you a mug of coffee blacker than his past.

For a while, the only sound was the scrape of forks against ceramic. Frankie wasn't a big talker in the mornings, apparently. He ate with a disciplined efficiency, occasionally checking his phone, probably some private security contract or a check-in with the boys, but he kept looking up at you. Every time his eyes caught yours, that small, knowing smile returned.

He caught you pulling the sleeves of his shirt over your knuckles and let out a soft huff of a laugh. "You like the shirt, huh?"

"I couldn't find mine," you admitted, feeling a flush creep up your neck. "I think it's lost in the abyss of your bedroom."

"Nah," he said, standing up and wiping his mouth with a napkin. "It’s probably on the couch. Pretty sure it didn't make it past the living room last night."

He walked over to the sofa, hooked your shirt with two fingers, and brought it over. He didn't just toss it at you; he handed it over like it was made of silk. He reached down, gathered your empty plate and his own, and carried them to the sink.

"Bathroom’s down the hall, second door on the left, if you want some privacy to change or whatever," he said over the sound of the running water. "Fresh towels are in the cabinet."

You stared at his back, watching the muscles of his shoulders move as he rinsed the dishes. It was too much. The domesticity of it was jarring.

"Frankie?"

"Yeah?" He didn't turn around.

"Why are you being... like this?" You gestured vaguely to the kitchen, the food, the general lack of awkwardness. "It was just a night. You don't have to do the whole 'gentleman' routine."

He turned then, leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms. He looked at you with an expression that was surprisingly grounded, his dark eyes steady.

"Look," he shrugged, "just because we kept it casual doesn't mean I’m gonna kick you out on your ass into the morning cold. That’s not me." He tilted his head, a flicker of something honest crossing his face. "My mother would skin me alive if she knew I let a woman leave my house hungry or feeling like a Tuesday night mistake. I was raised to treat people right, regardless of the 'status' of the night. It’s just how it is."

He turned back to the sink, dismissing the gravity of it as easily as he’d cooked the eggs. "Now go get dressed. Or don't. I'm not in a rush to get rid of you."