cutting into him.
The bacon popped in the pan. Andrew stared at the food.
This wasn't him.
He didn't cook for women.
He didn't wait around for anyone.
But for her?
He was making damn scrambled eggs and checking if the toast was browning evenly.
And the worst part?
She probably wouldn't even stay to eat it.
The scent of eggs and toasted sourdough crept into the bedroom like a lazy tide.
Back in the bedroom, Bella stirred.
Her hand reached out instinctively, brushing the other side of the bed, empty. Warm, and realized that Andrew didn't come back to bed again. She blinked up at the soft golden light pouring through the tall curtains and stretched with a soft sigh, sheets slipping down her bare body.
No rush.
No tension.
No guilt.
Just a typical morning after a typical night with the same man she always came back to.
She rose slowly, wrapping one of Andrew's black button-down shirts over her frame, not even bothering to button it fully. The silky fabric kissed the curves of her thighs as she padded barefoot to the bathroom, and after a minute, she came out of the room and made her way downstairs.
She found him exactly where she expected: behind the marble kitchen island, tall and calm, stirring something in the pan like it was any other day.
"Morning, chef," she teased with a drowsy smile, her dimples flashing.
Andrew glanced up. His eyes landed on her, his shirt on her, her bare legs, her sleepy smile. She looked untouched by the chaos she left behind in his chest.
"You slept late," he said simply.
"I was tired," she replied with a stretch. "Someone kept waking me up."
He said nothing.
Bella slid onto one of the high stools and reached for a mug. Andrew already knew how she liked her tea, sweet, no cream. He poured it without being asked and set it in front of her.
She sipped it, eyes closing for a second in pleasure.
"This tea's good," she murmured.
"I imported it from Venice."
"Rich boy things," she teased lightly, wiggling her brows.
Andrew forced a tight smile and slid a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast toward her. She took a bite like it was routine, like she'd done this a thousand times.
No, thank you.
No comment about the fact that he cooked for her.
Just eating, like this, was a normal, casual morning after sex.
Like it meant nothing.
"You make good eggs," she mumbled with her mouth full. "You should open a side café in your skyscraper. 'Monsiago & Eggs.'"
"Bella."
"Hmm?"
"Do you ever think about what this is?" he asked suddenly.
She looked up, chewing. "You mean… breakfast?"
"This. Us."
Bella blinked, then smiled a little.
"You're being dramatic," she said softly, as if soothing a child. "We've talked about this, Andrew. It's sex. Company. Comfort. Whatever it is, it works."
"Does it?" he asked, voice lower now.
Her brows lifted. "Are you saying it doesn't?"
He looked at her for a long moment. "It's starting to feel like I'm in this alone."
Bella put her fork down and tilted her head slightly.
"Don't do that," she said gently. "Don't make this a thing, it's not. You knew the rules, Andrew. We made them together. Please let's not argue, it's too early for this."
His hands were clenched on the edge of the counter. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw the plate just to break the silence. Instead, he said, "And what happens when I want more?"
Bella's expression didn't change. She simply gave a beautiful, soft smile and looked down at her plate again.
"Then we stop."
Andrew stared at her like she'd punched a hole through his chest.
"But I like this," she added lightly, like she hadn't just ripped his breath away. "I like you. I like how you feel. I like being with you. But if this ever stops being easy… I'll walk away."
And she said it so gently. So kindly. Like it was reasonable. Like it wasn't a threat.
Andrew swallowed hard, heart pounding behind his ribs.
He didn't speak.
Bella finished her last bite, then hopped down from the stool and leaned over to kiss his lips.
"Thanks for breakfast," she whispered. "You're sweet when you're not spying on my messages."
He didn't smile. He couldn't.
She grabbed her bag, still barefoot, and made her way toward the bedroom to dress.
Andrew stared at the untouched half of her toast. Her lip gloss was faintly imprinted on the rim of the mug.
The smell of her perfume lingered in the air.
And as the door to the bedroom clicked shut behind her, he finally let his hands drop from the counter.
He was unraveling.
Quietly. Invisibly.
And no one, not even Bella, could see how much it hurt.