Page 17 of Protector of Talon Mountain

"Coffee?" I ask, because it’s safer than asking what he’s thinking.

He nods once. Doesn’t smile. Just steps deeper into the kitchen, and suddenly everything feels smaller. The walls. The space between us. My pulse.

I grab a mug—plain white, thick ceramic, no frills—and pour. I don’t ask how he takes it. I already know. When I hand it to him, our fingers don’t touch, but they could. That tiny space between skin and skin feels louder than the wind outside.

He takes the mug and sips once, eyes still on me. I wait for some sign—approval, comment, something—but all I get is that unreadable stillness he wears like armor. It’s not cold, but it’s not open either.

“I thought you might sleep in,” I say, turning back to the dough. My voice sounds casual, but I can hear the edge in it. Too light. Too aware.

“I don’t sleep late,” he answers, tone flat and low, like he’s stating a fact about the weather. “Especially not when someone left a mark on your wrist less than twelve hours ago.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Not because he says them like a threat. Because he remembers and says it like a promise.

I busy my hands again. Muffin tin. Scoop. Repeat. “You planning to do a perimeter sweep before every sunrise?”

“If I need to.”

I glance back at him, raising a brow. “Are you always like this?”

“Yep.”

I shake my head. “A man of few words.”

“A man who chooses his words carefully and doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.”

The corner of my mouth twitches, but I keep my smile buried. I’m not sure he’d know what to do with it. Or maybe I’m not sure I would.

He doesn’t sit. Just leans against the doorframe, watching the oven like he expects it to confess something. I move around him, aware of how close he is, how warm the air feels in that narrow space between our bodies. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me with the same quiet intensity he wore when he stared down that guy in the street.

I speak before I think. “I don’t make all my tenants coffee in the morning.”

“Have you had many other tenants? Does that make me special?”

I have to stop and look at him closely. Did Zeke MacAllister just make a joke?

Zeke lifts the mug slightly—maybe to cover a smile. “Thanks; it’s good.”

That’s it. No effusive compliment. No flirt. Just that one simple sentence. And weirdly, it lands better than anything sweet ever could.

I look at him for a second too long, then turn back to the dough, cutting the last scone with more pressure than necessary. “Kitchen gets noisy around six, just so you know.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Good. Because I don’t tiptoe.”

“Neither do I.”

His voice is closer now. I glance sideways and find him just behind me, not crowding, but definitely in range. He’s looking at my hands again. Not the scones. Not the coffee.

The wrist. He’s still tracking it. I pull my sleeves down and say nothing. He doesn’t press. He just takes another sip of coffee, then nods toward the front of the café.

“I’m gonna do a walk. Lock the door behind me when I go.”

I nod, throat tighter than I expect. “Be careful.”

His gaze holds mine for a beat that stretches too long to be casual. “Careful is my middle name.”

“That’s an interesting name: Zeke Careful MacAllister.”

---