Page 82 of When Death Whispers

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.

Likewe’renormal.

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.

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