Cain woke to the dull throb of a headache, the kind that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. His mouth felt like cotton, his tongue rough against the roof of his mouth. Last night was a blur, fragments of smoke curling in the air, the burn of liquor, a bottle in his hand, and then nothing. The rest was lost in a haze of bad decisions.

He stirred, muscles stiff and protesting as he shifted onto his side. His arm brushed against something soft, warm, too warm. His eyes shot open.

She was there.

His chest tightened, a cold fist squeezing his ribs. She was curled up beside him, her form pressed lightly against the sheets. One hand was tucked beneath her cheek, her hair spilling in tangled waves across the pillow like some delicate mess. The soft, steady rise and fall of her breath was the only sound in the room. She looked peaceful. Innocent. Like the world hadn’t taken its bite out of her yet.

But she shouldn’t be here.

"Fuck," Cain muttered, dragging a hand over his face. His fingers brushed the stubble on his jaw, a reminder that he wasn’t even wearing a shirt, just the boxers hanging low on his hips. His heart pounded in his chest, not from the hangover but from the presence of her next to him.

What the hell happened last night?

His mind scrambled. He remembered her voice, sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade, snapping at him from across the bar. It was their rhythm. Their thing. Fire and gasoline. But then there was the party. Too much liquor. She’d walked out with that guy, the smug bastard who had his hand on her waist like he had any right to claim her. Cain’s jaw clenched at the memory. He remembered shoving the guy hard enough to crack his skull against the wall. She had screamed at him, her voice raw and furious, shoving him back. Called him a selfish, possessive bastard. Maybe she was right.

But none of that explained why she was here now.

His eyes traced her face again, his gaze lingering on the way her lips parted slightly in sleep, the way the shadows of her cheekbones softened beneath the dim morning light. He felt something stir deep in his chest, a warmth he didn’t want. It was dangerous. He couldn’t let her see it. He couldn’t let her wake up, her eyes finding his, pulling out everything he’d buried so deep. She couldn’t see that.

Cain sat up slowly, the movement making his head spin. He gritted his teeth against the dizziness, grabbing a shirt from the floor and pulling it over his head like armor. The room smelled faintly of whiskey, her perfume mingling with it, sweet, delicate, like the last thing he needed in his life.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, leaning against the headboard. Whatever had happened last night, he’d regret it. He always did.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, still asleep. Good.

In the kitchen, he grabbed a pan and set it on the stove with more force than necessary. His fingers fumbled with the carton of eggs, his knuckles bruised, the remnants of whatever had happened last night still visible on his skin. He cracked them into the pan, the sizzle filling the air, but his thoughts never stopped circling back to her in his bed. To her, as if she belonged there. To her, as if she didn’t know how dangerous it was to be near him.

Cain snorted bitterly. If only she had some goddamn sense. If only he did.

The creak of a floorboard behind him stiffened his spine.

“Morning, princess,” he drawled, voice thick with dry amusement, not bothering to turn around. He scooped the eggs onto a plate, then grabbed a fork, setting it down on the counter in front of him. “Didn’t know you liked slumming it in strangers' beds.”

Only then did he turn, leaning lazily against the counter, his smirk sharp but hollow. She stood in the doorway, looking like a wreck. Her clothes were crumpled from the night, her hair a tangled mess, the crease between her brows telling him she was still trying to piece it all together.

“Whatever disaster you’re imagining didn’t happen,” Cain added, his voice low and edged with something dark. “I have better standards than that.” He bit off the words, bitter and acrid, like poison on his tongue.

He grabbed a mug from the shelf and poured himself a cup of coffee. The motion was slow, deliberate, almost taunting as he considered offering her some, before quickly deciding against it. His smirk curled wider, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hungry?”