I should say no. I should ask him to leave. Instead, I find myself nodding, watching the muscles in his back flex as he returns to the stove.
"How did you learn to cook?" I ask, desperate for safer conversational ground.
"My grandmother taught me," he says, ladling more stew into my bowl. "She said no grandson of hers would grow up unable to feed himself properly. Even warriors need to eat."
"She sounds like a smart woman."
"She is." He returns to the table, placing the refilled bowl in front of me, his fingers brushing against mine as he sets it down.
The brief contact sends a jolt of electricity up my arm. I pull back reflexively, nearly knocking over my water glass. "Sorry," I mutter. "Weird static charge."
His nostrils flare slightly, and I realize with a start that he's scenting me, the way predators do. "You're injured," he says suddenly, reaching for my hand again.
I try to pull away, but he's faster, his fingers gently capturing my wrist and turning my palm upward. A small cut crosses my palm—a souvenir from the restaurant kitchen. It’s not bleeding, but there’s a slight scab. I hadn't even noticed it.
"It's nothing," I say, but don't pull away. His touch is warm, his skin surprisingly soft despite the calluses that speak of years handling weapons. "Why did you really come here tonight?"
He doesn't answer immediately, just holds my gaze across the table. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, the air between us charged with something I can't—or won't—name.
"Because I couldn't stay away," he finally says, the simple honesty in his voice catching me off guard. "Because something is happening between us, and I think you feel it too."
I open my mouth to deny it, but the lie won't come. Not with him looking at me like that, all earnest intensity and quiet certainty.
"I don't know what I feel," I admit instead. "This is... complicated."
"Because of what you are?" he asks gently. "Or because of what I am?"
"Both." I tug my hand free and run my fingers through my still-damp hair, suddenly aware of how I must look—exhausted, disheveled, still wearing clothes that reek of restaurant kitchen and sprinkler water. "Look, I appreciate the... whatever this is. The dinner. The strange conversation. But it's been a really long day, and I need to process... everything."
Something like disappointment flashes across his features, but he quickly masks it.
"Of course," he says, rising from his chair. "I've imposed enough for one night."
"It's not that," I say quickly, then stop, unsure why I feel the need to reassure him. "I just... need some space. A shower. Sleep."
"I understand." He begins gathering the dishes.
"You don't have to do that," I protest.
"My grandmother taught me to clean up after myself as well as cook." His smile returns, warming his eyes. "Besides, the brownies would be disappointed if I left a mess."
I shake my head, bemused. "The brownies."
He carries the dishes to the sink, his back to me again, giving me a perfect view of those intricate tattoos. The wolf design seems to shift as his muscles move beneath the skin, almost as if it's alive.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text notification. I pull it out, grateful for the distraction from my inappropriate ogling of the man’s back muscles.
Ghost: Heard Hayes slapped you with another rookie assignment tomorrow. Sucks. Try not to let any more brownies escape. I’d really like to have you back as my team leader in a few weeks.
Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. GUIDE. Hayes. My job. My cover. Everything I've built is teetering on the edge of a damned cliff because I can't seem to stop myself from helping the very creatures I'm supposed to be hunting.
"I have to go," he says, turning from the sink. "You need rest."
I look up, surprised by his sudden decision. "I thought I was the one kicking you out."
"You were," he says with a small smile. "But now I'm leaving before you have to." He gestures toward my phone. "Bad news?"
"Work stuff," I say vaguely. "Nothing important."
