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I wake to sunlight streaming through my windows and the aroma of coffee warming the air. My head pounds with the aftermath of too many hits, too much whiskey, and too much crying. My entire body aches, bruises stiffening overnight into patches of purple and blue across my ribs and back.

“You’re awake.”

I startle at the sound of Orien’s voice and twist around to find him standing in the kitchen, a mug in each hand, watching me with careful attention. He’s dressed, his jacket back on, shoes on his feet, but his hair is rumpled on one side, proving that last night wasn’t a dream.

“You’re still here,” I say with more surprise than I intended to reveal.

The scent of coffee grows stronger as he sets one of the mugs on the nightstand. “I said I would be.” He holds out the second mug. “Drink. It’ll help with the headache.”

I push myself up to sitting, wincing as my ribs protest the movement, and take the mug with careful hands. The coffee is hot and strong, on the right side of bitter, with the perfect amount of cream.

Exactly how I prefer it.

“Thank you.” I take a sip, and grimace when it stings to swallow.

Orien sits on the bed and brushes the hair off my forehead. “How’s the headache?”

“Bad,” I admit. “But better with the coffee.”

He pulls a tube of salve from his pocket. “This will help with the swelling.”

He unscrews the cab to squeeze some cream out of his fingers and works it into the bruise along my jaw. “The marks on your throat are going to show for a bit.”

I sit still beneath his touch, focusing on the careful movement of his hands rather than the memories trying to surface. His fingers are warm on my skin, the salve leaving a cooling trail in their wake.

His hand leaves my jaw and moves to my shoulder, then down my arm. “How’s your side?”

“Sore,” I admit. “But I don’t think any ribs are cracked.”

He hums, noncommittal, his fingers finding the hem of my shirt. “May I?”

I set the coffee on the nightstand beside his and lift my arms. He lifts the fabric with care to examine the bruise along my ribs. His touch comes feather-light, skimming the skin, but I still flinch when he finds a tender spot.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “One sec.” His fingers probe the area with careful attention. “Looks like it’s just badly bruised.”

He lowers my shirt with the same careful attention, ensuring it settles into place before he stands.

“Stay here,” he says. “I’ll bring you a plate.”

A sense of déjà vu fills me, and I reclaim my coffee to sip from its brim while he starts breakfast, pulling a pan from the cabinet, setting it on the stove, and cracking eggs into it with practiced motions.

He’s preparing breakfast. In my apartment. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

A few minutes later, Orien returns with a plate of eggs and toast, which he sets on my lap. “Eat all of it.”

I pick up the fork. “Aren’t you having any?”

“I ate while you were sleeping. You were passed out hard.”

“Huh. I’m usually a light sleeper.” The eggs are perfectly cooked, the toast golden brown, and my body responds to the food with immediate interest. “Thank you.”

His hand covers my foot over the blanket. “I have to go to work today. Rowan’s expecting me at noon.”

The statement sends a jolt of panic through me, and I set my fork down before I drop it. “I understand. “Thank you for…for everything.”

Orien’s brow furrows.

“You’re coming with me,” he says. “I’m not leaving you here alone after last night.”