Sunday morning sunlight poured through the tall windows of Mateo's bedroom like it had been invited.

I woke slowly, wrapped in sheets that still smelled like him ; cedar, clean skin, a faint trace of last night's sweat and sex. My body ached in the best way: wrists faintly marked from the belt, thighs tender, core still sensitive.

I stretched. Smiled into the pillow.

Then I smelled coffee.

Mateo walked in carrying a tray . Black coffee, fresh croissants, sliced fruit, a small vase with one white rose.

I just knew he outdid himself.

He was shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, hair messy from sleep.

He looked softer in...