Page 83 of Celestial Combat

Not mine – the warmth of the bed, of the sheets, of something lingering in the space around me. It smelled like Zane. Clean, dark, something deeper that was uniquely him. I pressed my cheek against the pillow for a second longer than necessary, letting the scent wrap around me before reality started to set in.

I was alone.

I blinked, the golden morning light filtering through my lashes, and turned onto my side, stretching slightly. The muscles in my body ached, a dull reminder of last night.

Slowly, I sat up, the oversized white T-shirt –Zane’s– slipping against my skin as I moved. The fabric was soft, slightly oversized on my frame, and even though I’d already worn his clothes the night before, there was something about waking up in them that made it feel… Intimate in a way I hadn’t expected.

Sunlight poured through the grand windows, casting long golden streaks across the open loft. Beyond the glass, Brooklyn stretched out in a haze of morning light, the city moving in slow, lazy waves beneath the rising sun. The sight of it – warm, softened by the early hour – made something settle deep in my chest.

With a deep breath, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and padded toward the bathroom, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug on the way.

After washing up, I stepped back into the open space of the loft, seeing it for the first time in natural light.

I made my way down the steel staircase, the cool metal under my feet a contrast to the warmth of the loft. As I neared the bottom, a sound reached me – quiet, rhythmic, familiar.

The sound of a knife against a cutting board.

I turned toward the kitchen and stopped in my tracks.

Zane stood at the stove, shirtless.

For a moment, I just looked.

The morning light caught on the hard lines of his body, the defined muscles shifting as he moved. Ink covered nearly every inch of his back and arms – black tattoos winding over his skin, some intricate, almost elegant in their design, others heavier, darker, like ghosts. The Japanese influence was obvious in some of the pieces – dragons, koi fish, waves. But beneath it all, there was something raw about him, like his skin told a story in ink, and I wanted to know every part of it.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.

“Good morning,” I said finally, my voice steady even though my pulse wasn’t.

Zane glanced over his shoulder. When his dark eyes met mine, something passed through them. Then, that small, easy smile.

“Morning.” His voice was still rough from sleep, that made something tighten in my stomach.

I walked over to the island and slid onto one of the stools, watching as he finished cooking.

A few minutes later, he brought over two plates and set them down, then took the seat beside me.

I blinked down at the food, my lips parting slightly in surprise.

One plate was unmistakably Japanese – grilled salmon, miso soup, tamagoyaki, and a small bowl of pickled vegetables alongside steamed rice. But the other…

“Is this Cuban?” I asked, looking up at him.

Zane smirked, picking up his chopsticks. “Trevor got me into it a couple years back.”

I glanced down at the second plate –pan tostado, golden and crispy, with a small dish of butter on the side. Next to it, a perfectly madetortilla de plátanorested beside a steaming cup of café con leche.

Warmth spread through my chest.

“This is one of my favorites.”

“I know.” Zane’s smirk didn’t fade, but there was something softer in his expression now. “It’s one of mine too.”

For a moment, I just looked at him, the food momentarily forgotten. His dark eyes held mine, unwavering, like he wasn’t afraid of what I might see there. Like maybe, just maybe, he wanted me to see it.

I didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was him. But suddenly, the space between us felt smaller.

The air thickened, a slow, quiet pull between us.