I cross the room to take it. “You made my coffee.”
“You need it.”
“I am starting to think that is your answer to everything.”
“It usually works.”
I take a sip.
Cream and sugar, exactly right again.
My heart does something foolish, so I concentrate on the coffee instead.
Zain watches me over the rim of his mug, his coffee as brutally black as always.
“How do you feel?”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The medical interrogation.”
“Were you sore when you woke up?”
I nearly choke.
He waits.
I lower the mug slowly. “A little.”
His jaw tightens.
“Do not.”
“Do not what?”
“Start blaming yourself.”
“I hurt you.”
“You did not hurt me.” I set the mug down. “There is a difference between pain and being a little sore after having sex for the first time.”
His expression remains unconvinced. The quiet seriousness of it warms me more than it should.
Then his eyes drop again.
To the hem of his shirt.
A slow awareness moves through me.
He knows. Or at least suspects.
I set my mug beside his and move closer until only the edge of the counter separates us.
His stare sharpens.
I should stop.
