Morning After
Davide woke to sunlight and the sound of someone humming. He lay in bed for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sweet, bruised ache of well-exercised muscles and a profound reluctance to move. The events of yesterday felt like a fever dream—discovering they were both targets, the building, the ledger with their names marked for death. But Luke was here, safe, and that mattered more than anything else.
He found Luke in the kitchen, wearing only Davide’s boxers, framed by the white tile and the early sun. Luke stood casually against the counter, nursing a cup of coffee and reading a case file on Davide’s tablet with a look of intense concentration. For a second, cold fear seized Davide. The sight of Luke, so at ease, so perfectly integrated into his space, was dangerous. He adored it.
“You’re staring,” Luke said, not looking up.
“Of course I am,” Davide replied, voice rough with sleep. “You’re half-naked in my kitchen, reviewing my confidential case notes. It’s either that or arrest you. I haven’t decided which would involve more paperwork.”
Luke finally looked up and smiled over the rim of the cup, a slow, infuriatingly charming expression that made Davide’s chest tight. “You’re rather dramatic first thing, aren’t you?”
“And you,” Davide countered, gesturing with his chin, “are wearing my favorite boxers.”
Luke glanced down as if noticing for the first time. Through their bond, Davide caught the small pulse of amusement. “My apologies. They were right there on top. And for the record, the fit is . . . adequate.” The small lie was so polite, so perfectly British, that the familiar ache behind Davide’s eye gave a soft, almost affectionate pulse.
Davide opened the refrigerator and grabbed the carton of milk, checking the expiration date out of habit. Still good for two more days—a miracle considering his usual shopping schedule. He heated it in a small saucepan, adding coffee from his stovetop moka pot to create a proper caffè latte for both of them.
“Right,” he said, opening the pantry door. “Breakfast options are limited when you’re technically fugitives. We have—” he surveyed the sparse shelves “—biscotti that could probably stop a bullet, or—” he pulled out a colorful box and set it on the counter with a slight grimace “—these.”
Luke examined the box with scientific curiosity. “Alphabet Stars,” he read aloud. “Ages three to eight. Reinforced with essential vitamins and minerals.” He looked up at Davide with barely contained amusement. “You eat cereal shaped like letters?”
“They were on sale,” Davide muttered, his ears reddening. “And before you ask, yes, I occasionally spell out profanities with my breakfast. It’s therapeutic.”
Luke’s smile widened into something genuinely delighted. “This is brilliant. Do you realize these have more nutritional value than half the meals I’ve had in the past month?” He shook the box, listening to the cheerful rattle of tiny stars and letters. “I’ll take the alphabet cereal, please. With extra milk.”
“Christ, you’re easily entertained,” Davide said, but he was already getting bowls from the cupboard. Luke poured the colorful shapes into both of them with obvious satisfaction. “Just remember, if anyone from headquarters asks, you never saw this.”
Luke picked up his bowl with mock solemnity, fingers brushing Davide’s as he handed over the other. “Your secret breakfast shame is safe with me.” He took a bite and immediately looked pleased. “Though I have to say, for someone worried about grocery shopping while being hunted by supernatural serial killers, you’ve managed quite well.”
“I bought these weeks ago,” Davide admitted, settling across from him with his own cup of caffè latte and a piece of toast. “Back when my biggest worry was whether Torriani would assign me another fake paranormal case.”
“Before supernatural serial killers started hunting us, you mean?”
“Exactly. Simpler times.”
They ate in comfortable silence, the morning light filling the small kitchen. Through their psychic bond, Davide could sense Luke’s underlying tension despite his casual demeanor. The discovery that they were both marked had shaken them more than either wanted to admit.
When they were finished, Luke pushed his cup aside, his expression turning serious. “We need to move on Cortini today. The longer we wait, the more dangerous this becomes.”
Davide eyed him over the rim of his own cup. “Agreed. But we need evidence that will stick. The ledger pages aren’t enough—his lawyers will claim forgery.”
“Then we get more evidence,” Luke said, his analytical mind already working through possibilities. “There has to be something at his gallery that connects him to the murders.”
Davide stood and began rinsing the cups. “Fine. Get dressed. You can’t go to meet Torriani in my boxers. He would have a stroke.” He glanced over his shoulder with a slight smirk. “Even if you do fill them out well.”
Luke’s response was immediate—a slow, infuriating smirk that made Davide’s stomach flip. Through their bond, Davide caught the spike of pleased satisfaction. “Do I now?” he said, deliberately stretching in a way that showed off exactly how the borrowed boxers fit. “Good to know I have options if this consulting career doesn’t work out.”
“Don’t start what we don’t have time to finish,” Davide warned, but his voice carried more amusement than actual protest.
He disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later with a pair of black jeans and a dark gray Henley. He’d rummaged through his entire wardrobe to find the two items that were least likely to offend Luke’s funereal aesthetic. He tossed them on a chair. “Try these. If they don’t fit, you’ll have to suffer.”
Luke caught the clothes, something shifting in his expression. Through their bond, Davide sensed a flash of something deeper—gratitude mixed with an emotion he couldn’t quite identify. Luke disappeared to change and came back looking almost like himself, albeit a slightly rumpled, less severe version. The jeans were a bit too short, showing a scandalous amount of pale English ankle, and the Henley was too wide in the shoulders—clearly Davide’s clothes on a taller, leaner frame. But it was dark, and that seemed to be enough.