He looks unfairly good for a man who spent an hour sweating voluntarily.
His gaze moves over the counter.
Then to me.
“I’m starving!”
“Just a few more minutes,” I say.
I crack the eggs into the water one after the other.
Behind me I hear him pull out one of the stools and sit down.
Present in my peripheral vision in a way that should be distracting.
It is.
I just don’t mind.
I fish the eggs out when they’re done and set them carefully on top of the avocado toast.
Yolk-heavy perfection.
Then carry both plates over.
Mark looks down at his breakfast.
I slide the plate in front of him and lift the tray with the hash browns.
“I made these too,” I say. “Although I wasn’t sure if you’d eat them.”
Mark looks up. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I lift one shoulder. “You run before sunrise. You own protein bars. You look like the sort of man who says things like clean bulk.”
He snorts.
“I’m not a psychopath.”
Before I can react, he leans forward, catches my wrist lightly, and takes a bite directly out of the hash brown I’m holding.
I gasp.
Not because he stole food.
Because he is suddenly close enough that I catch soap, coffee, the last trace of sea air still clinging to him.
He chews, eyes on mine.
Then nods.
“Definitely eating them.”
He releases my wrist and sits back like he has not just briefly short-circuited my nervous system with one completely unnecessary mouthful of potato.
“That,” I say after a second, “was deeply rude.”
“You offered.”
