Morning teasing and tension

next morning, I woke sticky-thighed and restless, the dream I couldn’t quite remember clinging to me like sweat. Bella was already gone—a shift at the café, probably—leaving the house quiet except for the distant hum of the washing machine. I tugged on my tightest leggings and a sports bra that pushed my tits up just enough to be noticeable, then padded downstairs, deliberately skipping the squeaky fourth step. The scent of coffee led me to the kitchen, where James stood at the counter in running shorts and a sweat-damp tee, scrolling through his phone. His biceps flexed as he raised his mug to his lips, and I bit back a grin. *Perfect.*

"Morning," I said, lingering in the doorway just long enough for him to look up. His gaze snagged on my bare midriff for a fraction of a second before darting away—but not fast enough. "Sleep well?" I added, leaning against the counter so close our elbows almost brushed.

James cleared his throat, thumb still hovering over his phone screen. "Like the dead." He took a deliberate sip of coffee, but his knuckles whitened around the mug. "You?"

"Fitfully." I let the word hang between us, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. The kitchen was too warm suddenly, or maybe it was just the way his sweat-darkened shirt clung to the ridges of his abdomen. I reached past him for the coffee pot—close enough that my hip brushed his thigh—and pretended not to notice his sharp inhale. "Bella left early?"

"Six a.m. shift." His voice had gone gravelly, like he'd just woken up. Or like he'd spent the night thinking about something he shouldn't. The thought sent a thrill down my spine. "There's toast if you—"

The vibration of his phone against the counter cut him off. He glanced at the screen, jaw tightening. "Christ. Board's moved the meeting forward." He drained the rest of his coffee in one go, the muscles in his throat working. I could smell the clean sweat on him, mixed with something darker—like he'd already run miles before dawn.

I busied myself with the toaster, acutely aware of how my leggings clung to every curve as I bent to retrieve the butter from the fridge. The silence stretched thick between us, punctuated only by the hum of the appliance. When I straightened, James was watching me with an intensity that made my pulse stutter—there and gone so fast I might have imagined it.

"Mrs. Hartwell already at the hospital?" I asked casually, spreading jam with deliberate precision. Anything to hide the tremor in my fingers. The knife scraped loudly against the toast—too loud—and I winced at my own obviousness.

James hesitated, his phone halfway to his pocket. His grip tightened around the device, tendons standing out in sharp relief. "Twelve-hour shift today." The words came out clipped, as if they'd been measured and rationed. He glanced toward the hallway, then back at me, and something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. "Listen, Felicity—"