The gray light through the blinds is the first thing I register. Thin, pale, the kind of morning that hasn't decided if it wants to be bright yet. The second thing is the smell—coffee, real coffee, the kind that fills a whole apartment and makes the air feel warm and lived-in.

I'm on my stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, the sheets twisted around my legs. Marcus's t-shirt hangs off my shoulder, the collar stretched wide enough to show half my chest, and I can still smell his body wash in the fabric. The sheets smell like him too. The whole room does.

I stretch, slow and lazy, feeling the ache in my thighs. A good ache. The kind that makes me smile against the pillow.

Then I hear his voice.

"N-no, I—yeah, I'm up. I've been up."

It's coming from the kitchen. Low, a little strained, the kind of voice he uses when he's trying to sound normal and failing.

I lift my head, blinking against the light. The bedroom door is open, and through it I can see a slice of the kitchen—a counter, a coffee mug, and Marcus, standing with his back to me.

He's wearing only his boxers. Gray, low on his hips. The morning light cuts across his shoulders, his spine, the dip of his lower back, and I feel my breath catch the same way it did last night. The same way it always does.

His phone is pressed to his ear. His free hand is wrapped around a coffee mug, and I watch his thumb trace the rim once, twice.

Something crackles through the speaker. A voice I recognize from a dozen lunches.

"Bro, you sound different. What happened last night?"

Marcus freezes. His shoulders go tight, and I see the back of his neck start to flush red.

I push myself up on my elbows, the sheets pooling around my waist. I'm completely naked under this t-shirt, and I'm suddenly very, very awake.

"N-nothing happened," Marcus says, and his stutter is bad. Worse than I've heard it in weeks. "I just—I woke up late, that's all. I overslept."

Isaac's voice comes through again, crackling and amused. "You don't oversleep. You're up at six every day, even on weekends. You told me that yourself."

"I—well, I—"

"And you're stammering. You only stammer like this when something's wrong. Or when you're lying."

"I'm not l-lying."

"Bro. Bro. Tell me what happened."

Marcus shifts his weight, his thumb still tracing the mug's rim. The flush has spread down his neck, across his shoulder blades, and I watch him take a breath that does nothing to steady him.

I smile.

I slide out of bed slowly, the sheets whispering against my skin. The floor is cool under my bare feet, and I cross the room without making a sound, my hand trailing along the wall as I go.

Marcus doesn't hear me. He's too focused on the phone, on the stutter he can't control, on the lie he's terrible at telling.

"Nothing happened," he says again, weaker this time. "I just—I had a good night. That's all."

"A good night." Isaac's voice is flat, disbelieving. "You sound like you just ran a marathon. You sound like you—"

He stops. There's a beat of silence, and I'm close enough now to see the way Marcus's grip tightens on the mug.

"Wait," Isaac says slowly. "Wait, wait, wait. Are you—is someone there?"

Marcus's eyes go wide. "What? No. No one's—"

I reach him. I press myself against his back, my breasts flattening against his spine, my arms sliding around his waist. His body goes rigid, and I feel the sharp inhale he takes, the way his muscles lock up under my touch.

"Marcus?" Isaac's voice, tinny and distant. "Bro, you there?"

Marcus doesn't answer. He can't. His mouth is open, his breath caught, and I rest my chin on his shoulder, looking at his profile—the stunned shape of his eyes, the red that's spread to his ears, the way his lips part and don't close.

I press a kiss to his shoulder blade. Soft. Deliberate.

He shudders.

"Marcus." Isaac's voice has an edge now. "You're freaking me out. Say something."

I slide my hands up his chest, slow and teasing, and I feel his heartbeat under my palms, rabbiting against his ribs. I feel the scar across his ribs, the pale line my fingers found last night, and I trace it gently, watching his breath hitch.

"I—I gotta go," Marcus says, and his voice cracks. "I'll call you back."

"What? No, you can't just—"

I lift my head, angle my face toward the phone, and I shout, clear and bright: "He fucked me so good he's a changed man!"

Silence.

Marcus goes completely still. Like he's stopped breathing, stopped living, stopped existing in this moment.

Then Isaac's voice comes through the speaker, high and strangled: "WHAT?"

Marcus makes a sound. A strangled, wounded sound. He yanks the phone away from his ear and stabs at the screen, fumbling, missing, finally hitting the button to end the call.

Silence.

He stands there, phone clutched in his hand, coffee mug forgotten, his whole body rigid. The flush has spread everywhere now—his back, his neck, his ears, even the side of his face I can see.

I press a kiss to his shoulder again, softer this time. "Morning," I murmur.

He doesn't answer. He just breathes, ragged and uneven, and I feel his chest rise and fall against my arms.

Then he sets the phone down on the counter, very carefully. He sets the mug down too. And then he turns.

His eyes meet mine, and I see it—the embarrassment, the shock, the way his mouth opens and closes like he's trying to find words that won't come.

"You—" he starts, and his voice breaks. "Lila, you just—"

"I told him the truth." I smile up at him, my hands still resting on his chest, feeling the heat of his skin under my palms. "You did. All night. And you are."

His face is so red it's almost purple. "I—I can't—Isaac is never going to—"

"He's going to be insanely jealous," I say, running my hands up to his shoulders. "And he's going to buy you breakfast and ask for details you won't give him. And then he's going to get over it."

Marcus stares at me, his eyes wide, his mouth still open. "I can't believe you did that."

"I can." I rise up on my toes, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "I do what I want, Marcus. And I wanted him to know."

His hands find my waist. They're shaking a little, but they settle there, warm and heavy, his thumbs tracing circles against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "Know what?"

I look up at him, and I feel the smile spread across my face, slow and wicked. "That you're mine. And that I'm very, very good to you."

His breath catches. I watch his throat move as he swallows, and the red on his face deepens, but something else flickers in his eyes. Something deeper. Something that makes my heart skip.

"You are," he says, so soft I almost don't hear it. "You're—" He stops, shakes his head, and I watch him struggle for words. "I don't—I don't know how to—"

"You don't have to know." I press closer, my body molding against his, the thin t-shirt the only thing between us. "You just have to be here."

His hands tighten on my waist. His eyes search mine, and I see the question there, the uncertainty, the wonder.

"I'm here," he says. And his stutter is gone. Just for that moment. Just for me.

I kiss him.

Soft. Slow. My lips parting against his, my tongue tracing the seam of his mouth until he opens for me, and I taste coffee and something else, something that's just him. His hands slide down to my hips, pulling me closer, and I feel him hard against my stomach through his boxers.

I want him. I always want him. But right now, I want something else too—to push him a little further, to watch him come undone again.

I pull back, just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, his lips parted, his breath uneven.

"You started Without Me," I say, nodding at the coffee mug.

He blinks, thrown by the shift. "I—yeah. I didn't want to wake you."

"You should have." I step back, just enough, and I let my hands fall from his chest. "I want to wake up to you, Marcus. Every morning."

His eyes go soft. Soft and vulnerable, like I've said something that matters more than I meant it to.

"Every morning?" he repeats.

"Every morning." I hold his gaze, and I don't look away. "I told you. I don't share. And I don't stop."

He doesn't answer. He just looks at me, and I watch his throat move again, and I see the emotion flicker across his face, fast and raw, before he tucks it away.

I turn, slowly, and I walk toward the kitchen counter. The coffee mug is still there, warm under my fingers, and I lift it to my lips, taking a sip. It's black. A little bitter. Perfect.

I can feel his eyes on me. On the t-shirt that barely reaches my thighs. On the curve of my back, the sway of my hips as I move. I take another sip, letting him watch, letting the silence build.

Then I set the mug down. I brace my hands on the counter, and I bend over, slow and deliberate, arching my back and lifting my ass in the air for him.

The t-shirt rides up, baring me completely. I'm not wearing anything underneath—I never am, with him—and I feel the cool air against my skin, the heat of his gaze on the curve of my ass, the soft skin of my inner thighs.

I don't move. I just stay there, bent over the counter, my head turned just enough to see him in my peripheral vision.

He doesn't move either. For a long moment, neither of us breathes.

Then I hear him take a step forward. Then another. His footsteps are slow, deliberate, and I feel the heat of his body before he touches me, feel him close, so close, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

His hands land on my hips, and I feel the tremor in them, the barely contained hunger.

"Lila," he says, and his voice is rough, broken in a way that makes my pulse skip.

I don't answer. I just arch my back a little more, offering myself to him, waiting.

The morning light falls across the kitchen, catching the steam rising from the coffee mug, the dust motes floating in the air, the scar across his ribs that I can see in the reflection of the window. The trophy from last night is still on his desk in the other room, facing the bed, a reminder of everything we've already crossed.

I wait.

His hands flex on my hips, and I feel his breath hitch, feel the moment stretch between us, charged and infinite, as the gray light holds us both in its stillness.