I was about to slide off the bed when Owen filled the doorway, a steaming mug in his hand.His hair was damp and mussed like he’d taken a quick shower, his shirt slightly wrinkled—evidence it hadn’t been on for long.
He paused when he saw me, gaze sweeping over my oversized sleep shirt and bare legs before a slow smile curved his mouth.
“Hey, there.”He crossed the room and offered me the mug.“Thought you might need this.”
I took it gratefully, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic.“You are a saint,” I said solemnly.“A magical, wildly overqualified barista saint.”
One sip and I sighed.Exactly right.Of course it was.He retreated back to the door a safe distance.
“Sleep okay?”he asked, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe like he hadn’t turned my world upside down and then made deliberate choices about not turning it further.
I peeked up at him over the rim of the cup.“Shockingly, yes.You?”
His mouth quirked.“Same.”
We hovered there in the aftermath—carefully skirting last night’s restraint, the truth bombs, the portals, and the minor detail that an unknown thing had tried to put its hands on the grimoire like it owned the right.
I cleared my throat.“I think I’d like to visit my parents today.”
His expression softened instantly.“We can do that.After we go to the tree, though.”
Right.The crossing.The dying hickory.The thing we were supposed to seal properly before it widened.
So far, my Guardian performance was… subpar.
“Of course,” I said quickly.“After the tree.”
“You forgot,” he said, not even attempting to sound stern.
“No,” I lied.
“Mm-hmm.”
Instead of arguing, I rose from the bed, stepped closer, balancing my coffee one-handed and rising onto my toes to kiss his cheek.“Thanks,” I said quietly.“For the coffee.”
“You’re welcome.”His fingers brushed my hip, warm and deliberate, lingering long enough to remind me how aware of him I still was.“You know,” he added lightly, “if you’re planning to shower…”
I arched a brow.“Yes?”
“I’m committed to water conservation.”
A laugh escaped me.“Tempting.”
I was still considering poor but appealing decisions when the doorbell rang.
I glanced at the clock.Mid-morning.“Who on earth…?”
“I’ve got it.”Owen’s gaze flicked over me—bare legs, sleep-tangled hair, and precisely zero intention of modesty at the moment.“You might want pants before greeting the general public.”
“Rude,” I muttered, but he wasn’t wrong.
He headed downstairs.I set my mug on the nightstand, tugged on the first pair of jeans I found, and swapped the sleep shirt for a clean T-shirt.No time for underwear.
Commando it was.
I added it to the rapidly growing list of things I was absolutely not explaining to whoever had decided today was a good day to show up.
Raised voices floated up the stairs—male, irritated.Owen answering, his tone tight and controlled.
