The relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost embarrassing. I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear those words again, how much I needed confirmation that I hadn't crossed a line I can’t uncross.
"Thank you," I say, turning my head to press a kiss against her palm.
Her smile widens, a mischievous glint appearing in her eyes. "Though if you're planning a repeat performance, maybe we should discuss your technique. There's always room for improvement."
The tension breaks, and I laugh, genuinely laugh, before guiding her toward the breakfast bar. "Eat your eggs, Trouble. You'll need your strength for what I have planned later."
She hops onto one of the stools, those long legs swinging slightly before her feet hook around the metal rungs. "Is that a promise?"
"Absolutely not." I hand her a fork. “It’s a guarantee.”
She demolishes her eggs with surprising enthusiasm, scraping the plate clean while I sip my juice and watch her withbarely concealed amusement. There's something disarming about Mia's complete lack of pretense—the way she eats when she's hungry, laughs when something's funny, calls me on my bullshit when I deserve it. It's refreshing after years of carefully calculated interactions, of relationships built on what people can get from each other rather than genuine connection.
"What?" she asks when she catches me staring. A strand of hair falls across her face, and she tucks it back behind her ear.
"Nothing." I shake my head, smiling despite myself. "You just... really like eggs."
"I really like food cooked by someone else," she corrects, reaching for her orange juice. "My culinary skills end at pouring cereal and occasionally not burning toast."
"That explains the disaster in your kitchen and the takeout containers in your refrigerator."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "You were snooping in my fridge?"
"I was looking for water," I defend, hiding my smile behind my glass. "Hard to miss the architectural wonder of stacked containers."
"Hey, those containers are arranged by expiration date, thank you very much." She points her fork at me accusingly, but her eyes dance with humor. "Some of us don't have time to be breakfast chefs between saving lives and having mind-blowing sex."
The casual way she references last night sends a wave of heat through me, but before I can respond, she's already shifting topics, telling me about a medical journal article she read last week that contradicts my approach to Cheryl's case. The clinical details flow from her lips with the same passion she showed in my bed, her hands gesturing animatedly as she outlines alternative treatment protocols.
I’m engaged in the discussion despite the early hour, countering her points, adding my own observations. It'sinvigorating, this back and forth, this meeting of minds that somehow feels as intimate as the meeting of bodies.
When we finish eating, I gather the plates while she perches on the stool, legs swinging slightly, watching me move around the kitchen.
"We should get going," I say reluctantly, glancing at the clock. "Your place first so you can change?"
She looks down at herself and laughs. "Probably a good idea."
"Absolutely. Wouldn’t want anyone else getting this magnificent view," I tell her, only half-joking as I pull her to her feet. "Go get dressed."
Twenty minutes later, we're in my car, Mia back in her jeans and green tank top from the night before, hair somewhat tamed. The morning traffic flows around us as I navigate toward her apartment, the familiar routes suddenly interesting with Mia beside me, with her scent filling the enclosed space, her hand occasionally brushing mine on the center console.
"You're quiet," she observes as we stop at a red light.
I glance over, catching her studying my profile with those perceptive eyes. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"How different this is." The light changes, and I focus back on the road. "Driving to work with someone else. It's been a while."
"A while since you've had a carpool buddy, or a while since you've had someone stay over?" Her voice is light, but I can hear the genuine curiosity beneath the question.
"Both," I admit. "It's... nice."
Her hand finds mine on the gearshift, fingers sliding between mine for a brief, warm moment before retreating. "Yeah," she says softly. "It is."
When we reach her apartment building, I pull up to the curb and shift into park. "I'll wait here."
She hesitates, hand on the door handle. "You can come up if you want."
