His thrift store clothes, threadbare tweed trousers and linen shirt, too large for his thin body, lay scattered around the room. I gazed down at the wiry muscles of his back as they made a sinuous dance in sleep, his skin pale as milk. Dirty blonde hair, long uncut, lay over the pillow, framing his too sharp features, now peaceful, but which had been animated with such feral desire last night.

Leaning down I hesitated for second, then kissed his forehead before slipping out of the cotton sheets. I made coffee, toast and scrambled eggs with chives, carrying them up to the bedroom. He was awake, sitting up in bed, the sheets pooled about his waist.

“I smelled the coffee.”

“It’s Colombian,” I smiled, placing the tray down on the bedside table and ate my toast.

“None for me?”

“Help yourself.”

He spooned sugar and cream into the coffee, and bit hungrily into a slice of toast covered in egg.

“You do want to adopt the stray kitten then?” he said, eyebrows arching above moist green eyes.