the taste of coffee

The pale autumn light creeping through the curtains woke me.

For the first time in weeks, waking up wasn't a sudden jolt of numb suffocation. No cold stainless steel biting mercilessly into my pubic bone at the first involuntary morning shift. The loose cotton rested easily on my hips. The bruised patches along my groin throbbed with a dull, hot ache, like an old contusion, but the sharp, cutting tear was gone.

I turned my head carefully.

The other side of the bed was already empty. The duvet was turned back neatly, the pillow still bearing the indentation of her head. I slid a hand across the cooled linen, right where her body had rested only hours ago. The scent of cedarwood, clean laundry, and her own dry warmth still lingered richly in the fabric. Closing my eyes, I drew a deep breath as my heart gave an unsteady flutter.

It had been a night I wanted preserved in amber. Lying beside her, feeling the even rhythm of her breath against my neck, the weight of her arm across my chest—it had brought an almost painful, otherworldly sense of safety. I had barely slept, not from pain, but because I wanted to absorb every single second of that proximity. Every time she shifted in half-sleep, every time her thigh brushed mine or her hand unconsciously curled tighter into my T-shirt, a wave of reverent, intoxicated heat had flooded through me. Having her so close, so soft, so untouchable and yet entirely with me—it bordered on a miracle. I adored her. Every trace of doubt, every flare of anger from the past few weeks had melted away into the night, swallowed by an absolute surrender that left me breathless.

From the kitchen came the familiar, quiet hum of the coffee grinder, underscored by the faint clatter of ceramics.

I sat up slowly. My body felt as though it had survived a heavy car crash—the muscles in my back stiff, the tendons in my pelvis raw—yet I could breathe. Slipping into my slides, I smoothed down the oversized white T-shirt and stepped cautiously into the hallway.

In the kitchen, Loona stood at the counter with her back to me. She wore loose black sweatpants and a soft cashmere sweater, her hair pinned up into a messy bun. She didn't look like the dominatrix of recent weeks. She looked like the woman who had pulled me close and kissed me last night. My gaze took in every detail: the slender line of her neck, her upright posture, the casual grace in every movement. She was breathtaking. And the knowledge that behind this calm surface slumbered a force that had dismantled Emma with mere words filled me with a blend of sacred awe and burning pride.

When the floorboards creaked softly beneath my step, she turned around.

Her gaze drifted down my frame—appraising, attentive, devoid of the cutting mockery I had grown so used to. Faint shadows still lingered beneath her eyes, but the feverish edge from the evening before had vanished. She looked calm again, composed, sovereign.

"Good morning," she said softly.

"Morning," I rasped, rooted to the kitchen doorway. My pulse quickened immediately simply from having her dark eyes settle on me.

Loona caught my hesitation at once. A faint trace of softness crossed her lips before she tipped her chin toward the small dining table, where two mugs, toast, and butter were already laid out.

"Sit, John. You don't have to stand at attention here."

I pulled out a chair and lowered myself down gingerly to keep the pressure off my groin. She set down a mug of steaming coffee in front of me—prepared precisely the way I took it, with a splash of oat milk. She knew. She had accounted for every single detail.

"How does it feel?" she asked without preamble, taking the seat opposite me and wrapping both hands around her own mug.

"It… it still stings," I answered honestly, eyes fixed on the rising steam. I could barely bring myself to look at her directly, so intense was the swell in my chest. "But it's nothing compared to yesterday. The throbbing is duller."

She nodded slowly. "After breakfast, we'll head back to the bathroom. Fresh ointment. The swelling needs to go down before reality kicks in this afternoon."

At the phrase *reality kicks in*, my stomach clenched briefly. Timo.

"Do you have to go to uni today?" she continued, sipping her coffee and watching me over the rim.

"Just one lecture at eleven. Experimental physics. Compulsory attendance for the credit." I swallowed dryly. "Emma is in the same cohort."

The porcelain of her mug clinked softly as Loona set it down. Her features turned instantly to ice, the quiet domesticity giving way to that razor-sharp resolve that had made her the arbiter of life and death the night before.

"Emma won't come anywhere near you," she said, her voice flat with absolute authority. It was no empty reassurance; it was a law she was carving into stone. "She realized last night what's on the line. If she so much as looks at you sideways, you call me. But trust me: she will hold her breath the moment you step into the same room."

Then she reached across the small kitchen table, laying her hand flat against the back of mine.

The touch hit me like a live current. The skin beneath her cool fingertips began to burn instantly. It was no disciplinary grip, no cold detachment—her palm was soft, possessive, and completely encompassing. A raspy, trembling breath broke from my lips. My entire body leaned inwardly into the contact, as though my very survival depended on keeping her hand anchored to mine. I would have done anything she asked. Had she commanded me to crawl across the city on my knees, I would have done it with a smile, so long as she touched me like this at the end of the day.

"You walk in there with your head held high today, John," she murmured, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that scattered my thoughts completely. "You aren't a victim for every passing assistant to take their frustrations out on anymore. You belong to me. And that is exactly what she is going to feel."

A wave of dizzying gratitude rose in my throat. Her words seared themselves into my chest like sacred law.

I only nodded in silence, unable to speak, while my fingers twitched softly, almost reverently beneath her palm, drinking in the warmth of her skin. For the first time in weeks, the campus didn't feel like a scaffold—because I carried her invisible mark, and she was the queen shielding me from the world.