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Cold air brushes against my bare skin, and my eyes snap open.

The space beside me is empty.

The warmth, the weight—gone.

My breath stutters. I stare at the indentation where Hudson was in the sheets, the faint scent of vanilla still lingering in the air. The quiet that follows feels like a rejection. My pulse kicks up, a thrum in my ears as I sit up, scanning the room like maybe I missed him.

But I didn’t.

He’s not here.

For a moment, I just sit there, the sheet pulled loosely around me, trying not to feel anything. But the ache in my chest spreads fast. Faster than I want to admit.

Did he leave?

I press a hand to my sternum, trying to ease the tightness settling behind my ribs.

I knew this would happen. I expected it. Everyone leaves. Everyone.

So why does it still hurt?

I exhale slowly and slide out of bed, reaching for the first thing I see—his shirt, crumpled on the floor. I tug it on automatically. The fabric is worn, soft, and stupidly warm. It swallows me whole and smells like him. My fingers tighten around the hem.

I shake my head, muttering under my breath. “ Get a fucking grip, Parker. Stop spiraling.”

Then—

A sound.

The distinct sizzle of something hitting a hot pan.

My breath catches.

I creep toward the door, silent, my heart hammering. As I step into the hallway, the unmistakable rich scent of coffee floods my senses, followed by the scent of something… sweet?

I round the corner and freeze.

Hudson is at the stove. Shirtless.

His golden skin glows in the sunlight, muscles shifting with every movement. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his messy hair is falling into his eyes as he flips a pancake with one hand and sips coffee from a black mug with the other.

Like this is normal.

Like we’re normal.

My stomach does something stupid, and I stand there gripping the doorway, watching him for far longer than I should.

Because Hudson didn’t leave.

He’s still here.

And for some goddamn reason, that shakes me more than if he had left.

He must sense me, because he glances over—those impossibly blue eyes landing on me like they always do: steady, curious, a little too knowing.

A lazy smile curves his lips. “Mornin’, Silver.” His voice is deep and scratchy, still laced with sleep.

I step into the kitchen, arms folding loosely across my waist—more out of habit than defense. “If this is some elaborate ploy to win me over with pancakes and hot drinks... it’s working.”

Hudson smirks, flipping another pancake with practiced ease. “Good. That was the plan.”

He gestures toward the island, where a single mug waits beside my plate. The steam rising from it carries the scent of cinnamon, ginger, and something floral—hibiscus, maybe. Warm. Spiced. Bold with a soft finish. Like he somehow blended it to match my exact tastes.

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s not coffee.”

He lifts his own black mug and takes a slow sip, watching me with a slight smirk. “Nope. You don’t strike me as the bitter-bean type.”

I chuckle, stepping closer to the mug. “I do enjoy coffee, but... there’s something about a cup of tea.”

I pick it up, take a careful sip, and, of course, it’s amazing. Sweet, earthy, with just the right amount of sharpness at the edges. Calming, yet somehow invigorating all at once.

My brows lift. “You made this?”

He sets his mug down, his eyes still on me. “I guessed. But I’ve been paying attention. You like heat, but not burn. Spice, but not syrup. Something that lingers, but doesn’t punch you in the face.”

Before I can respond, he leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth—casual, like it’s normal now. Like we’re normal.

My breath catches.

He pulls back, just enough to murmur, “You’re kind of an acquired taste, Silver. But I like figuring you out.”

I glance at the mug, then back at him, taking a small sip.

I narrow my eyes at him, but there’s no heat behind it. Just confusion. Curiosity. Caution. Because this man keeps seeing beyond the walls I don’t even remember lowering.

And worse—he’s always so kind, worming his way into my heart little by little.

I take a seat at the little island, wrapping both hands around my mug as I take another sip. My eyes flick toward the plate he slides in front of me and?—

I pause.

One pancake is shaped like a flower. The other—a hummingbird. Just like the one he piped into buttercream not so long ago.

I blink down at the plate. They’re intricate. Thoughtful. A little ridiculous.

Who the hell is this guy?

The answer comes fast: I don’t really know.

We’ve been orbiting each other through chaos. Near-death encounters. Shadows. Sex. But I still haven’t learned much of anything about him—aside from the gossip that floats around town like pollen on the wind. People talk about how he’s the golden boy, the town’s favorite, always smiling, always helpful. But no one’s ever bothered to dig deeper, to ask what’s really going on beneath all that charm. Until now.

I clear my throat and cut a piece from the hummingbird’s wing. “Okay. New rule.”

Hudson pauses mid-sip of coffee, brows lifting. “Yeah?”

“You don’t get to keep making me pancakes and decorating cakes like a secret pastry god without telling me a single real thing about yourself.”

A crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “So, you wanna interrogate me over breakfast?”

I tilt my head, considering. “That depends. How attached are you to your kneecaps?”

He laughs, the sound low and warm. “Well, there’s a strong chance I might need my knees for specific situations. Worshipping your body being at the top of that list.”

That makes a flush of heat spread like wildfire over my cheeks then down my chest.

Dammit, the guy’s good. I bet he enjoys watching me blush if the smirk and twinkle in his eye is any indication.

“Then yeah.” I clear my throat, then meet his gaze, steady this time. “Let’s start with something easy. Where’d you learn to make pancakes like this?”

He flips another onto a plate, then turns off the stove and joins me at the island. “My mom,” he says, settling in beside me. “She went through this phase where she took every cooking class she could find and dragged me along for the ride. I picked up a few things… realized I liked it. Especially baking. Now I fine-tune with social media videos and let her test the results.”

He pauses, a soft rueful smile spreading on his face, love coloring his every word. It makes my heart ache with grief, with the what ifs of what family life could have been like, had I not been hunted by a monster hell-bent on taking everyone I loved from me.

He must catch the flicker of pain across my face, because the smile fades.

Before he can ask, I push forward. “Do you have any siblings?”

Hudson shakes his head. “Only child. Spoiled as hell on Carter Ranch. Got all the horses, all the lessons, none of the real labor. I even tried bronc riding for a while.” He huffs a laugh, stabbing his fork through a butterfly-shaped pancake. “Lasted about five rides before I realized I sucked at it.”

I glance at the pancake he’s mauling. It’s a butterfly with surprisingly detailed wings.

Another contradiction in a walking contradiction.

Hudson radiates easy confidence, cocky masculinity, and yet here he is: making pancakes shaped like flowers, hummingbirds and butterflies. Baking cakes for old ladies. Smiling like he means it. I don’t understand him.

And I also don’t hate it.

“So you’ve lived here your whole life?”

“Born and raised. Fifth generation of Carter Ranch royalty,” he says, but this time, there’s no pride in his voice. Only bitterness, thinly masked by a swallow of coffee.

I watch the shift in his posture—his shoulders tighter now, jaw clenched, eyes on his plate like it might bite him. He pushes a bit of pancake around with his fork but doesn’t eat.

So the golden boy prince of Creek Haven doesn’t love the crown.

Interesting.

“If you could go anywhere,” I ask, softer now, “leave your job, your family, all of it—where would you go, then?”

He lifts his gaze to mine, slow and steady, the weight of it slamming straight into my chest.

“You already know the answer, Silver.” His fingers reach out, brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear in that now-familiar way that short-circuits my brain. “You said it yourself. We’re linked. Where you go, I go. Doesn’t matter where, as long as you’re there.”

My breath hitches and clogs with emotion, my heart squeezing with something dangerously resembling hope.

The silence shifts—warmer now. Not absence. Something else.

He stayed.

He wants to stay.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

A ping sounds from somewhere across the island and Hudson reaches over to grab his phone and check the notification. A little crease forms between his eyes when he frowns, typing something on it in response and curiosity gets the best of me.

“What is it?”

“Donovan needs me to go in tonight. Both Jenna and Betty have booked the night off and no one else can cover the shift.” He looks up at me, like he’s waiting on my input on what he should do.

My heart squeezes in response, the thoughtfulness hitting harder than I would’ve ever expected.

Is this what we have progressed to now? Making decisions together? I’ve never had someone to bounce ideas off of before. It’s… nice.

“I’ll go in with you.”

“You sure? You haven’t had much sleep in the last few days. Even your dreams were not… restful.” He hesitates, his throat bobbing with emotion, and I can’t help but follow the movement and find it oddly… attractive.

“Yeah, I’m tired of waiting around for the other shoe to drop. Besides there’s way more lights at the bakery. The way I see it, if we leave early enough, it’s probably safer there than here anyway.”

Hudson nods, accepting my decision without argument, and types a response back then setting the phone back down to lean back, casually sipping his coffee like he didn’t just rock my entire foundation. “I wasn’t gonna leave, you know.”

I go still.

He says it like it’s nothing. Picks up our conversation where it left off with ease. But to me, it’s everything.

My fingers tighten around the fork, the pressure of it grounding me. I force a scoff. “Who said I thought you were leaving?”

His grin turns smug, amused. “Your face when you walked into the kitchen.”

I glare, half-hearted, and aim a kick at his shin. He dodges, laughing like this is all some kind of game he’s already won.

“Eat your damn pancakes, Hudson.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he teases, grin lingering—but the edge has dulled. Something softer lives in his eyes now. Something real.

Something that makes me way too aware of how I’m starting to trust him—and how dangerous that is.

Because trusting him isn’t just a risk for me—it’s a death sentence for him, signed by my monster’s hand. And honestly? The more I let myself want , the harder it is to keep finding reasons to push him away.