Oh, shit.

I grab my phone. The screen remains stubbornly black when I press the power button.

I stumble out of bed, still half-naked, half-hungover, and grab my charger, plugging it in. The red charging light blinks at me accusingly. While I wait for the resurrection of my poor, unsuspecting phone, I pull on my satin robe from the bathroom and head toward the kitchen.

I stop short.

Because there is a very large man in my kitchen.

For a split second, panic grips me, my heart leaping into my throat. Intruder? Murderer? Kidnapper? My hungover brain cycles through threats, fight-or-flight instinct kicking in despite my foggy state.

But then my sleep-clouded brain clears, and I actually register who it is.

Not just any large man.

Callahan.

And Callahan is shirtless.

Oh. Oh.

I don't move.

I just stare at him, frozen in the doorway.

His back is to me, and holy fuck. The morning sunlight streaming through my kitchen window illuminates him like some kind of inked up Renaissance painting. I knew he had tattoos, but they're not just on his arms. They snake up over his shoulder blades, across the expanse of his back. It's a lot of black and gray work, intricate and sprawling, but I can't quite tell what all of it is from this distance. The designs shift as he moves, muscles rippling beneath inked skin.

All I know is it's hot.

And I am in trouble.

Because I don't know what happened last night.

Why is he here?

And why is he in my kitchen, making food, half naked?

And then a terrifying thought slams into me.

Did we sleep together?

Is that why my panties were off?

Is that why he's shirtless?

What the fuck did I do?

Before I can spiral any further, something else distracts me.

Something even more disorienting.

The smell of coffee.

And food. Really, really good food. The rich aroma of bacon and eggs fills the apartment, making my stomach rumble traitorously despite my hangover.

Just as I'm mentally debating whether I should run or demand answers, Callahan turns around.

And I nearly trip over my own feet.

Because if I thought his back was bad, his front is a fucking war zone. More tattoos, more hard lines, more muscle than should legally be allowed. The ink continues across his chest and down his arms in intricate patterns that draw my eye to every perfectly defined muscle. A dusting of dark hair trails down his abs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans that sit low on his hips.

And he's holding a mug of coffee.

For me.

I forget how to breathe.

And then another horrifying realization hits me, sending a fresh wave of heat to my face.

I'm barely wearing anything.

The robe I threw on?

It's not even tied shut.

It's just hanging there, wide open, because I always lose the stupid ties. Because why, why, do they not just tie the stupid things into the robe itself? The silky fabric parts to reveal entirely too much of me—sleep-rumpled, hungover, and completely unprepared for this moment.

Callahan's eyes flick down, just briefly, before he looks away. I make a strangled noise, clutch the robe closed with one hand, and spin on my heel.

"Sorry!" I practically yelp, darting back into my bedroom.

I slam the door, leaning against it, pulse racing.

What is happening?

I force myself to breathe, count to five, then stumble to my dresser. I grab some actual clothes, and throw on sweats and—most importantly—a pair of panties.

Because I need something to drench, apparently.

I steel myself and step back out into the kitchen, more clothed, but still not emotionally prepared for this. The worn floorboards protest beneath my feet, announcing my return.

Callahan glances at me as I walk in. "I didn't mean to startle you," he says, his deep voice rumbling in the quiet morning air.

I wave a hand, still flustered. "No, yeah, it's fine. Totally normal to wake up to a half-naked man in my kitchen." My voice comes out higher than intended, betraying my nervousness.

The corners of his mouth lift slightly, like he’s trying to hold back a laugh. "I guess we have different definitions of 'normal.'"

I narrow my eyes, but he just hands me the coffee, unbothered. The mug is warm against my palms, the rich aroma drifting up to tempt me.

I take it, mumbling, "Thank you."

We sit down at the table, plates of actual breakfast in front of us. Eggs, bacon, toast. It smells like heaven. Steam rises from the perfectly cooked food, making my mouth water despite my hangover.

I glance at him. "So, uh...what happened last night?"

He leans back, sipping his own coffee. "You got wasted. Amanda shoved me in a booth with you. You nearly passed out in the restaurant. I drove you home."

I’m stunned. "You drove me home?"

He nods, taking a sip of his coffee like it's not a big deal. "There was no way I was letting you get into a car with a stranger."

I put my coffee down too hard, the liquid lurching up the side of the cup. "Wait. I tried to get into a car with a stranger?"

His lips twitch, like he's holding back a laugh. "No, I meant a cab."

I exhale dramatically, pressing a hand to my chest. "Jesus, Callahan, clarify faster next time. I thought you meant I was about to get kidnapped."

He takes a sip of his coffee, and then the ghost of a smile twists his lips. "Not on my watch."

I roll my eyes, but something warm and stupid unfurls in my chest.

He didn't have to do any of this. He could have put me in a cab, washed his hands of me, let me deal with my own bad decisions.

But he didn't.

Instead, he drove me himself.

Made sure I was safe.

Stayed in my apartment to look after me.

Because that's who he is.

Protective.

Uncompromising.

Steady.

And the worst part?

I love that about him.

"That was...really sweet of you," I murmur, tracing the rim of my mug with my finger. "I'm sorry I ruined your night."

He shrugs. "You didn't."

I poke at my eggs, suddenly feeling weirdly shy. The yellow yolk breaks, spreading across my plate. "Where, uh...where's your shirt?"

"Soaking. Got grease on it while cooking. Didn't want the stain to set."

I nod slowly. "Oh."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" he asks, cocking a brow, his voice tinged with amusement.

Before my brain can stop my mouth—I—like an absolute fucking idiot—say, "Oh no, I prefer it."

Silence.

I blink.

Callahan blinks.

Then I slap my forehead and groan, the sound echoing in my small kitchen. "Please just ignore me."

His amusement grows. "Noted."

I shove bacon into my mouth to stop talking forever. The crispy, salty flavor explodes on my tongue, momentarily distracting me from my embarrassment.

I swallow hard, pushing my eggs around my plate, summoning the nerve to ask the question that's been gnawing at me since I walked out here and found him in my kitchen half-naked and beautiful.

"So...um," I start, feeling my face heat up. "Did anything...happen last night?"

Callahan pauses mid-bite, then slowly lowers his fork. The metal clinks softly against the plate in the sudden silence.

Callahan watches me a second too long.

"What do you think?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.

Then he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, and Jesus Christ. I should be thinking about his words, about the implications of what he's asking. Instead, my brain short-circuits because his tattoos are on full display.