The apartment is dark, heavy with the quiet hum of the city outside. You stir against Kane’s chest, the faint twist in your stomach making you shift uneasily. He’s spooning you from behind, arm locked firmly around your waist, chest pressed to your back, legs tangled with yours in a way that makes moving impossible. You’re in black lace, delicate against the heat of his skin, and even now, his presence is suffocating in the best way—possessive, unyielding, absolute.

Kane never truly sleeps. You know that. Even now, every breath you take, every subtle shift, registers with him.

You stir again, sighing softly. Your eyelids flutter open. The clock glows 4:03 a.m. He notices instantly.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, not a question.

“A little… nauseous,” you admit quietly, curling against him instinctively.

Kane doesn’t respond immediately. He tenses, pressing just a little harder against you, sensing every subtle change in your body. He tilts his head, silent, calculating, reading you without a word. His eyes are sharp even closed, and you feel the weight of his attention.

“Stay,” he murmurs finally, brushing his lips against your shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You press back against him, letting yourself be anchored. Even with the twisting nausea, even with the uncertainty in your chest, you feel safe. Kane’s arm tightens possessively, holding you in place. You close your eyes again, letting the quiet tension stretch between you, knowing he’s awake, watching, and already aware of more than you’ve told him.

By the time light begins to filter through the curtains, Kane slides off the bed, clad only in boxers, eyes immediately on you. You get dressed slowly, lingering dizziness making every movement deliberate. Kane catches your arm lightly as you stand, possessive and protective.

In the kitchen, the smell of cooking eggs hits you sharply. Your stomach twists violently, and you press a hand to your mouth, trying to hide the reaction. Kane notices instantly, but only steps closer, hand brushing yours briefly, anchoring you.

“Don’t push it,” he murmurs, low and controlled. “Sit.”

You take a stool, picking at the eggs cautiously, pretending the smell isn’t overwhelming. Kane doesn’t comment. He just watches, silent, alert, noting every subtle clue—the nausea, the way your senses seem sharper, the way your body reacts. He doesn’t say a word, not yet.

Even in the haze of early morning, with the lingering tension between you, you feel tethered, utterly held in place by Kane Davenport. Protective, vigilant, and entirely yours.