He complies immediately, setting the spoon aside and taking two steps back, hands still raised. The movement causes the muscles in his chest and abdomen to flex, drawing my eyes downward before I can stop myself. I quickly snap my gaze back to his face, hating the heat that rises to my cheeks.
"Why aren't you wearing a shirt?" I demand, hoping my voice sounds more authoritative than flustered.
A slow smile spreads across his face. Not smug, exactly, but knowing. "The brownies said women on Earth find this garment especially attractive. Grey sweatpants and no shirt." He glances down at himself, then back at me. "Was their information incorrect?"
Brownies. Giving fashion advice. To seduce me. And damn them, they're right. My eyes betray me, drawn to the sculpted planes of his chest, the way the sweatpants hang dangerously low on his hips. Focus, Astrid. He broke into your home. He's the enemy. The very attractive, half-naked enemy standing in your kitchen making food. Get it together.
I open and close my mouth twice before finding my voice. "That's... that's not the point! The point is you're in my apartment! Illegally!"
"I told you, the brownies opened it," he says like that’s a perfectly normal explanation. "And I made you dinner. Beef stew. Old family recipe. You should try it before it gets cold."
He reaches for a bowl on the counter, and I tighten my grip on the gun. "Don't move!"
"It's just a bowl," he says, his tone gentle as if soothing a spooked animal. "For the stew."
"I don't want stew! I want answers!" But even as I say it, my stomach betrays me with a growl loud enough for both of us to hear. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and whatever he's cooking smells absolutely incredible.
His smile widens slightly. "Your body disagrees." He moves to the stove again, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. "Please, sit. Eat something. Then we can talk."
I should arrest him. I should call for backup. I should do anything except what I actually do, which is lower my weapon slightly and say, "Why are you here? Really?"
"To get to know you," he says simply, ladling stew into a bowl. "And to help you understand what's happening."
"What's happening?" I repeat.
"With us." He places the bowl on my small kitchen table, then reaches for a bottle of wine. "Would you like some?"
"This is not a date," I snap, finally holstering my weapon. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have tried by now. Besides, I'm relatively confident I can take him if necessary. Probably. Maybe.
Though the memory of that massive wolf in the forest makes me less certain than I'd like to be.
"Not a date," he agrees, pouring himself a glass. "Just dinner and conversation."
I approach the table cautiously, eyeing the steaming bowl of stew. It looks as good as it smells—chunks of beef, carrots, potatoes in a rich, herb-flecked broth. My stomach growls again, louder this time.
"How do I know it's not poisoned?" I ask, though I don't really believe it is.
He looks genuinely shocked at the suggestion. "I would never harm you, Astrid." The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. Soft, almost reverent. "Never."
I believe him. That's the strangest part. Something in me recognizes the truth in his words, feels the sincerity radiating from him. It's the same instinct that made me let him go in the restaurant. The same one that kept me from shooting him when he carried me out of that sinkhole.
Slowly, I pull out a chair and sit. "You still haven't told me your name."
"Fenrir," he says, taking the seat across from me. "Fenrir Thorsson, but most people call me Fen."
Fenrir. The name resonates in my chest like a struck bell. The wolf destined to swallow the sun at Ragnarök. Of course he'd be named after the most dangerous creature in Norse mythology. But Fen... the shortened version rolls through my mind like it belongs there. Familiar. Right.
"Like the wolf from Norse mythology," I say, picking up a spoon and cautiously tasting the stew. It's delicious. Rich and savory and somehow familiar, like a meal from childhood I'd forgotten.
"Yes." Something flickers across his face again, but it’s too quick to identify. "Like that."
I take another spoonful, hunger overriding caution. "Why did you save me? In Missouri?"
"Would you rather I'd left you in that hole with a broken leg?" He raises an eyebrow, sipping his wine.
"No, but..." I set down my spoon, studying his face. "You could have killed me. Should have killed me. I was hunting you."
"And yet you let me go," he counters. “And again today.”
