I slip out of bed, the cool air whispering over my skin. Padding toward the bathroom, I sense his eyes on me—his gaze almost as tangible as his touch.

When I emerge a few minutes later, the room’s energy is different. Empty. Because I don’t find Alex waiting for me.

I find Alex in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, one crutch tucked under his arm, the hotel phone pressed to his ear. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of black athletic shorts that hang low on his hips, the sharp cut of his abs catching my attention.

His black hair is a little wild, like he’s been running his hand through it, unruly and beautiful without even trying. There’s something about the sight of him, casual and rumpled and real, that sends a soft ache through my chest.

Home.

That’s what he looks like to me now.

He catches sight of me—barefoot, hair twisted into a messy bun on top of my head, drowning in one of his T-shirts—and his entire face softens.

He covers the receiver with his hand and tips his chin toward me. “What do you want for breakfast?”

My stomach knots. Food sounds like the last thing I could handle. “Just coffee.”

His eyes narrow a little. Not angry—more like disapproving. Protective in that quiet, stubborn way that’s become second nature between us.

“You need food. No negotiation.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s useless. Alex Sebring doesn’t bluff. Not in taking care of me.

And not when it comes to breakfast.

“Fine,” I say, padding toward him. “An omelet.”

“Everything but tomatoes?”

He knows me so well. “That sounds good.”

He smirks, victorious, and speaks into the phone again, rattling off the order––the very long order––and I shake my head, smiling.

God, this man can eat.

Breakfast ordered, he pops my favorite coffee pod into the maker. He doesn’t even have to ask anyone how I take it. He knows.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome, babe.”

I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the heat sink into my skin. Reminding me that no matter how messy things are, no matter how much fear tries to root itself inside me, I’m not alone. Not anymore. Not since I met Alexander Björn “The Iron Wall” Sebring III.

I slide onto a stool, tucking my bare feet on the rung beneath it, sipping my coffee. All the while trying to quiet the voice in my head that won’t stop whispering about everything in Charleston.

Breakfast arrives and the scent of bacon and fresh bread fills the space. I lift the lids, surveying the spread, and I can’t help but smile.

Someone went overboard.

“How hungry are you?” I ask over my shoulder, grabbing two plates.

Alex leans on his crutch, watching me with an expression that’s half amused, half fond. “Are you kidding me?”