Excellent.
Apparently, humiliation survives anything.
The kiss comes back with cruel clarity: his hand at the back of my neck, the hard pull of his body, the rough sound he made when I moved against him.
Then the moment he stopped.
My stomach twists.
I am still angry, but I am also, annoyingly, capable of understanding why he did it.
Zain found me after a nightmare, scared and shaking in his bed, and when I kissed him, he worried that I was reaching for the person who had rescued me rather than the man himself. From his side, stopping was probably the decent thing to do.
I know that. I even respect it.
What I do not respect is him deciding that I could not possibly know my own mind.
That part can still go to hell.
I push back the sheets and sit up.
The cabin is quiet beyond the bedroom door, and for a few seconds I consider staying exactly where I am until he leaves for work, retires, or dies peacefully at the age of one hundred and six.
Then the smell of coffee reaches me.
Traitorous coffee.
A second scent follows.
Toast.
My stomach growls.
Fine.
I can face one emotionally constipated fire chief.
Probably.
I smooth both hands over the shirt I slept in, then remember that I am still wearing nothing underneath it except underwear.
Well, it is what it is. I do not exactly have options.
I open the bedroom door.
Zain is standing at the kitchen counter with his back to me.
I stop.
This is unfair.
He is wearing gray shorts and a plain white T-shirt, which should be one of the least interesting outfits ever invented. On Zain, it is a problem. The shirt stretches across his shoulders and back, the sleeves fit snugly around his arms, and the shorts show off strong calves and an ass I am not emotionally prepared to process before caffeine.
His hair is slightly damp.
He looks domestic.
Somehow, that is worse.
