I got dressed in my own clothes, which were less warm and less comforting and generally inferior in every way, and headed for the kitchen.
Making coffee in Kazan's kitchen involved standing on my toes, stretching across a counter built for giants, and trying not to spill grounds everywhere. I managed it with only a small mess, which I decided counted as personal growth.
I drank the first few sips standing there.
Then I looked at the counter. Specifically, the part of the counter where Kazan had put me two nights ago. My face went hot so fast I nearly burned from the inside out.
"Nope," I muttered, and turned around.
Very mature. Very dignified.
I took my coffee to the table and sat in the chair that still made me feel like a child because my feet didn't touch the floor unless I scooted to the edge. I hated that too. Not the chair. The scale of everything. The reminder that I was small here.
That Kazan was not.
That thought did not help with the counter memory. I groaned and covered my face with both hands.
Then the doubt showed up.
Of course it did. It had probably been waiting in the hallway for the coffee to kick in.
At first, it tried to sound reasonable. Kazan was keeping his distance because of the audit. He'd told me exactly why. This was smart. This was strategy. We had two weeks to survive before someone showed up to decide whether I got to keep my new life or get shipped back to James.
Fine. Great. Perfectly logical. But my brain had never met a logical thought it couldn't ruin.
We'd had one night together, and now Kazan was sleeping outside instead of coming near me.
Sure, he'd said it was because he wanted me too much. Sure, he'd looked like it hurt him to walk away. Sure, he'd been nothing but careful with me.
But James had been careful too, in his own awful way. With wording and timing. Careful to make every cold thing he did sound like my fault.
I hated that my mind went there.
I hated that he still got to live in my head rent-free after I crossed literal space to get away from him.
I was twenty-six years old, and I had almost no idea how any of this worked. I had survived a relationship where affection was rationed out like emergency supplies. I knew how to make myself smaller. I could ask for less and pretend it was enough.
I did not know how to be wanted by a man like Kazan.
Kazan, who'd fought in pits and led rebellions and made grown men look at the ground when he walked by. Kazan, who could have picked any woman off that ship and probably had half the settlement ready to trip over themselves for the honor.
And he'd picked me.
A human with a bad contract, a worse history, and enough emotional damage to qualify as a public safety hazard.
Now he was outside in the dirt.
I set my mug down before I squeezed it too hard and broke something. Probably my hand. The mug looked sturdy.
I made myself breathe.
In. Hold. Out.
Kazan had taught me that on the cidery floor when I was halfway to panic and trying to pretend I wasn't. Long, slow breaths. Count them. Feel the floor. Stay in the room.
"This is the old crap," I whispered to myself. "This is James crap."
Because it was.
