Over Easy, Over Heated

Portia had been up for over an hour, earlier than she'd ever managed in her old life. She'd fussed with her hair in the bathroom mirror until every strand lay in a way that felt soft, deliberate. She'd dusted powder on her cheeks, brushed gloss over her lips, slipped into a camisole that clung just right beneath the loose apron. The skillet still sizzled faintly on the stove, but breakfast wasn't really the point.

The point was Hank.

When he stepped out of the bedroom, shirt tucked crisply into his trousers, hair damp from the shower, Portia felt her heart race. He wasn't polished in the way men she'd known before had been—models, designers, Bernice's artsy friends—but there was something in him that drew her like gravity. The faint stubble roughening his jaw. The dark patch of damp fabric at his collar where he'd pulled the shirt on too soon. The simple solidity of him.

God, he looked good.

"You look…" Her voice stuck, and she had to swallow before finishing. "Really handsome."

He glanced at her absently, distracted by his phone buzzing with new messages. "Thanks," he said, and kept scrolling.

But Portia's chest thrummed. The words hadn't just been polite. She meant them. She wanted him. And the realization struck like heat spreading through her veins—that she didn't even want women anymore. The thought of Bernice's mouth on hers was a shadow compared to the ache building low in her belly just watching Hank knot his tie.

Her phone lit up on the counter as if on cue. Dozens of notifications: texts, emails, missed calls. Bernice's name again and again. Yesterday morning, Portia would've answered every single one. She'd have melted at Bernice's concern, at her insistence. But now all she felt was irritation. Bernice was a distraction, a relic. Hank was her future. Her man.

Sarah breezed into the kitchen then, heels clicking, blouse tucked sharp into a pencil skirt. But her crispness was undercut by the way she hovered near Hank, tilting her chin up so she could straighten his tie for him. The brush of her blouse against his arm was intimate, almost needy.

"You always take care of me," she murmured, too low for him to register fully, but Portia caught it. Her stomach fluttered with envy—and something else. Excitement.

Sarah slid a glance toward her, sly, lips curved in a smile that lingered just long enough to make Portia's cheeks flush.

"Isn't it nice having Portia here?" Sarah said lightly, smoothing the knot of Hank's tie. "The mornings feel so much fuller. Warmer."

Portia nearly dropped the spatula. Sarah had said she would help ease things along, but this was so soon! Was Hank ready to hear things like this already? Still, the warmth in Sarah's tone made her skin prickle, a teasing suggestion that seemed to wrap around her like perfume.

Hank just grunted, already pocketing his phone after scanning another notification with the preoccupied air of a man with too much on his plate.

Breakfast blurred into a haze. Portia barely tasted her own food, too lost in the sight of him. The way his wrist bent as he lifted his mug, the curve of his throat as he swallowed, the faint scratch of stubble on his jaw when he turned his head. Every gesture felt heavy, electric. She wanted to memorize him, to devour him.

When he finally stood to leave, Sarah gathered her bag with polished ease, trailing after him like a perfect shadow. Portia followed, clutching a plate she didn't care about, telling herself she was just tidying. Really, she just wanted a few more seconds to breathe the same air as him.

At the door, Sarah tilted her head toward Hank, her voice playful, intimate. "Have a good day, boss. I'll see you at the office. And don't forget we're all yours tonight."

Portia nearly gasped. Hank didn't even react—too distracted by the steady ping of his phone—but Sarah's words clung to Portia's skin, hot and suggestive, as if whispered directly in her ear.

The lock clicked behind them. Silence fell.

Portia's knees nearly gave out. Her heart hammered, her skin flushed with heat. She pressed the plate down onto the counter with a clatter and leaned against it, chest heaving. She had made him breakfast—but it had never been about the food. It was about proving herself. Showing him she could belong here. That she wasn't just some girl crashing on the couch—she could be useful. She could be part of his life. She could be his.

She stumbled back to the sofa, trembling, camisole clinging damply to her skin. Her thighs pressed together, ****, her lips parted without her meaning them to. The ache low in her belly was unbearable.

Portia sank onto the cushions, the ones that still smelled faintly of him from the weekend, and let her hand slip under her apron, under the thin edge of her panties. A shaky whimper escaped her throat as she touched herself, her body arching to meet her own fingers. She closed her eyes and pictured Hank at the table, tie straight, hair damp, eating the food she had made with that careless authority that undid her completely.

Her hips lifted, breath breaking in sharp little gasps, the coil inside her tightening until she thought she'd burst. She whispered his name like a prayer, shuddering, her whole body burning with the certainty that he was her man, her future, her only desire.

When the tremors finally ebbed, Portia lay back against the sofa cushions, panting, undone. She knew she'd be late for work. She didn't care.

Because Hank was worth everything—every lost hour, every risk, every piece of the old life she'd left behind.