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I jumped out of bed, threw water on my face, and gargled mouthwash. I didn’t even bother with my hair. There was a chill in the air, but it might have been the goose bumps of alarm climbing up my spine. I was in flannel pajamas and the print made it difficult to discern my nipples, but I threw on a thick terry robe, anyway. I exited Sandro’s room and made my way to the stairs.

The smell of coffee hit my nose first, and I listened briefly for voices. When I heard none, I slowly descended the steps. This whole scenario reminded me of my first morning here.

An arrangement of sunflowers in a rectangular vase sat on a console table in the big foyer. Their merry faces chased away a quarter of the anxiety inside me. Gaze transfixed, I cleared the bottom steps and walked toward them. A bubble of joy suffused my chest.

“Do you like them?”

I spun around to see Sandro leaning against the wall, arms crossed. As usual, he was in black. Exhaustion lined his features, but his eyes were as penetrating as ever. It looked like he hadn’t slept.

“Did you just get in?” I asked.

He gave a brief nod, eyes unwavering. “Did you sleep well?”

I bit my lower lip, walking toward him. “I did. What time is it?”

“Eight.”

I slept ten hours straight. “Looks like you need sleep yourself.”

“I have to head out again, but I just wanted to check up on you.”

“Sandro, you need sleep,” I insisted.

“I’ll be fine, baby.” His voice was soft and warm. It made my stomach do acrobatic flips. I couldn’t hold his eyes and walked into the kitchen. That was when the aroma of freshly baked bread hit my nose.

Beside another vase of sunflowers on the counter sat a bag with the label of Jabbin’ Java.

“Ohhh…” Tears stung my eyes, and like the sunflowers, it became my sole focus.

“It wasn’t Renz who made them, for obvious reasons,” he said.

I peered into the depths of the brown bag and picked up a croissant and inhaled its familiar buttery notes. I pulled one apart. My mouth watered as the flaky layers revealed themselves. “These look so fresh…When…?”

“They open at six thirty. I had Sloane pick up a selection while I waited in Harlem.”

“Sandro…?” What was he playing at?

“Come on, let’s have breakfast.”

“I thought you needed to leave.”

“Are you saying you don’t want my company?”

Not waiting for me to respond, he put his hands on my shoulders and guided me to the breakfast table by the window. I was still under the influence of sleep inertia, or maybe I was mesmerized by this little touch of home, of my husband, who was clearly sleep-deprived, yet felt the compulsion to cater to my needs.

He set a mug of coffee in front of me. “This is the Jabbin’ Java house blend. I made sure Sloane included a couple of pounds of beans too.”

Sandro brought the paper bag to the table, along with two plates. I sipped the coffee and closed my eyes. The familiar brew brought me comfort. Then I opened my eyes to see Sandro watching me with a hint of satisfaction on his face.

He nodded to the paper bag. “Eat.”

I picked through the bag and put the croissant I had split on my plate and put a whole one on his.

“I really appreciate this.” I took a bite of mine and resisted the moan that wanted to escape my mouth. “You really didn’t have to do all this. I mean, you could have come home earlier and slept instead of waiting for Jabbin’ Java to open.”

“I came home at three this morning,” he admitted. “When I entered the bedroom, you were dead to the world. I didn’t wannarisk interrupting your sleep.” He gave a derisive chuckle. “It had been a hellish past two nights for both of us.”

“Sleeping together used to be easier.”