I didn't sleep because I could still taste him.
Cedar and coffee. His mouth had tasted like the cortado I'd made him and the cedar that lived in his skin, and the combination was so specifically, devastatingly right that my body had been replaying it on a loop since I'd locked Treeline's door behind us and walked to my car and driven home to Baker with my hands steady on the wheel and my lips still burning.
I'd kissed him. In my shop. On my ground. My choice. I'd said don't move and he'd stood still and I'd put my mouth on his and the sound he'd made had rearranged something inside me that was never going back to its original shape.
And now it was morning and the rearrangement was terrifying.
