ARYA

The morning light filtered through the tall glass windows, brushing across the marble floors.

Daxton sat at the kitchen counter, shirtless, staring into a black cup of coffee he hadn't touched. His hair was damp from the shower, messy in the way I liked. But his jaw was clenched, his knuckles tight around the mug.

I crossed the living room, barefoot, the hem of his shirt brushing my thighs.

"Should I be jealous?" I teased gently. "That cup's getting more of your ...