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I sent all my father’s “gifts” back with a card that said I wouldn’t be attending any of his functions.

He’d left a voicemail threatening to stop paying my rent. I never answered back.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of cinnamon and vanilla drifting through the apartment. My eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the pale light invading my bedroom. The space beside me was empty but still warm, the sheets rumpled where Deadeye had slept.

I pulled on a pair of shorts and padded barefoot toward the kitchen.

Deadeye stood at the stove, his back to me, long dark hair pulled into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. The skillet sizzled as he dipped bread into batter and laid it carefully in the pan. His movements were done with the same easiness he brought to everything else he touched.

“You’re staring at my sexy back,” he said without turning around.

“I’m admiring how the muscles flex when you move.”

He made his muscles jump. “That turning you on?”

I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms. “Hardly.” Complete lie. “How did you know I was here?”

“I heard you breathing.”

“That’s not creepy at all.”

He glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “You’ll get used to it.”

The table was already set. Two plates, and two mugs of coffee. A small dish of butter and a bottle of syrup that I definitely hadn’t bought sat in the center. He’d bought it at the store or maybe brought it from the clubhouse, and the thoughtfulness was not going to make me swoon. Much.

“Sit,” he said. “It’s almost ready.”

The chair creaked under me the way it always did. Outside were normal morning sounds. Except nothing about this morning felt normal, because Deadeye was in my kitchen making breakfast like he’d been doing it for years.

He slid a plate in front of me. The French toast was golden brown, dusted with powdered sugar, sliced strawberries fanned across the top. My mouth watered before I even picked up the fork.

“You’re going to make me useless,” I said.

“You’re already useless.”

“So romantic.” I cut into the toast and took a bite. The bread was soft and sweet, the edges crisp, the cinnamon just right. I made a sound that was probably inappropriate for breakfast. “I hate how good this is.”

“You hate it.”

“Despise it. I’ll eat it every morning for the rest of my life.”

His laugh was quiet and warm. He sat across from me with his own plate, his knee brushing mine under the tiny table.

“Preacher gave me a few days off,” he said. “To get settled.”

“Settled?” I pointed my fork at him. “You moved in yesterday. There’s nothing to settle. My apartment is the size of a postage stamp.”

“Then I’ll settle fast.” He winked.

“You’ll be bored by Tuesday.”

“I doubt that.” He took a bite of his toast and chewed slowly. His eyes held mine across the table, and the look in them said I was his everything. I felt the same way. “You’re a lot of things, Niles. Boring isn’t one of them.”

I focused on my plate so I wouldn’t say something embarrassing. The strawberries were perfect, the syrup was warm, and the coffee was exactly how I liked it, which meant he’d remembered from the other morning at the clubhouse.

“You paid attention to how I take my coffee,” I said.

“I pay attention to everything about you.” He knocked his knee gently against my leg.