Adam didn't wait for her to answer. His hand slid from her arm to the small of her back, warm and steady, guiding her away from the sink.
"Come on, sit," he said quietly, his voice gentler than she'd heard in weeks.
She let him lead her to the nearest stool at the breakfast counter, her knees brushing his thigh as she sat. The contact was brief but enough to make her pulse stutter. Adam didn't seem to notice—at least, not outwardly—but the faint tightening of his jaw told her otherwise.
He moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, opening a cupboard for a glass, filling it with water from the dispenser. She found herself watching the way his forearms flexed with each motion, the way his white T-shirt clung to the line of his shoulders.
When he returned, he set the glass in front of her—but instead of letting go right away, his fingers lingered against hers on the cool surface.
"Drink," he murmured, his eyes holding hers.
