morning coffee

Tom lifted the glass of water, buying himself a second to steady his breathing. “Probably head out with the guys later,” he said, voice careful, casual. But inside, the thought was a lie—the only place I want to be is right here, near you.

He set the water aside and, without thinking, reached for the pot of coffee she’d brewed. The smell was rich, earthy, sharper than anything he’d ever liked before—but muscle memory from his other life guided him. The other Tom had started every morning with a cup, black and strong.

He poured, lifted the mug, and took a swallow.

The bitterness slammed into his tongue like a punch. His whole face scrunched involuntarily; he gagged, **** slightly as he **** it down. “Ugh—” he sputtered, hand flying to cover his mouth as if that would help. His stomach churned like he’d just swallowed motor oil.

Sarah blinked at him in surprise, then burst into soft laughter, her hand fluttering up to cover her lips. “Oh, honey,” she said, eyes crinkling with warmth. “You’ve never liked coffee. Not since you were little. What on earth possessed you to try that?”

Heat flooded Tom’s face. He **** a sheepish grin, muttering, “Guess I’m not awake yet.”

Still smiling, Sarah reached over and gently plucked the mug from his hand, setting it back on the counter. She shook her head in mock exasperation, the loose silk of her robe slipping against her collarbone as she moved. “You’re cute when you’re groggy,” she teased softly, before turning to collect the paper again.

Tom’s chest throbbed at the offhand remark, like she had just pressed a fingertip directly to the nerve he was trying to hide.

“Well,” Sarah continued after a beat, folding the paper under her arm, “I’m going to take a bath. Your father kept me up late.”

The words cut sharp, even though her tone was breezy, innocent. Kept me up late. Tom’s mind twisted the phrase instantly, vividly. Images of Robert’s hands on her skin, her hair damp and tangled against the pillow, the sound of her voice not in laughter but in something deeper, needier.

She turned from the kitchen, moving toward the stairs. The tie of her robe swayed gently with her steps, brushing against the curve of her hips. “Don’t burn the house down,” she called over her shoulder with a playful lilt, disappearing toward the upper floor.

Tom stood rooted to the tile, pulse hammering in his throat, the taste of bitter coffee still burning on his tongue.

He clenched his hands at his sides, trying to focus, but his body betrayed him—drawn taut with envy, with hunger, with the gnawing obsession that no teammate, no Donna, no distraction could quiet.

Upstairs, the pipes began to groan softly. The faint rush of water filled the silence, a sound that made Tom’s chest tighten.

She was filling the tub.

Taking her long bath.

Where Robert had touched her only hours ago, the water would now be lapping over her bare skin.

And Tom was downstairs, alone, shaking, the air in the kitchen too thick to breathe.