"They don't advertise it," I said. "I only know because we had a shoplifter."
He sent me a quizzical look. "That sounds like a story. What happened?"
"He'd run away. He was trying to steal a phone, and I spotted him because he'd already helped himself to some of Santa's cookies. I was worried he was hungry, so I was going to give him some more. His so-called therapy had happened the year before, and he'd convinced his parents he was straight."
Felix hissed in a breath. "What did you do?"
"I lent him my phone to call his grandad, which was what he was trying to steal a phone for, and kept him in the storeroom for over six hours until the grandad turned up for him."
"Of course you did." Felix tapped on the table. "I'll make sure we aren't doing business with anything Marston has a hand in."
He slid the juice glass closer. “You need to finish it. You’re going to eat breakfast every day. No skipping.”
My face burned. I squeezed the fork tight. “Yes, sir.” But when I went home, I had no choice. I couldn’t afford more than some cheap cereal. Not that he needed to know that, and for a moment, guilt swamped me. I wasn’t being honest.
I drank it all, cool and sweet and sharp on my tongue. It settled my stomach in a way I didn’t even know I needed. He watched every swallow, and something in me relaxed.
I set the glass down. “Thank you, sir.” It came out softer, almost shy. I glanced at the dishes next to the sink. They needed to be rinsed before being put in the dishwasher. Was he leaving for work? Maybe he took coffee with him? Did he have a travel mug?
He gave me the smallest smile. The kind that said I’d done something right. I was still riding the glow of it when he turned to his phone, thumb flying over the screen, but I could tell even then he was still fully tuned to me. I could feel it like a hand on my back.
“Today’s easy,” he said, voice even. “You need to rest those bruises and catch up on sleep. That’s your job.” He paused, letting the words settle, and my heart did a funny little stutter. “If you need anything, you ask me. Don’t guess. Pass me your phone.” Embarrassed because of the cracked screen, I pulled it from my pocket. He didn't comment, just sent himself a text. "There, you have my number."
“I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ll be leaving. I’m sorry I’ve made you late for work. I—”
“No, that doesn’t work for me. Do you have a Santa booking today?”
I shook my head. “Not today.”
He just nodded, like it was settled. “You can have a shower. There are clean towels in the bathroom. I have to go to the office, but you will remain here and rest. We will talk when I get home.”
The way he said it—it wasn’t a suggestion. It was a rule. And I needed rules so badly it hurt. I picked up my plate and reached out for his, but he shook his head and took mine from me. Iglanced down at my suddenly empty hands. It seemed wrong. He’d cooked, and I was desperate to clean up, but he’d been clear. I slid off the stool and stood there, not sure I could move without making a fool of myself. My legs were still shaky. My hands, too. But he didn’t look away.
I almost asked if he wanted to come and help me. The thought shot through my mind, hot and impossible. I couldn’t say it. Not out loud.
His phone rang, and I watched as he immediately transitioned into business mode. He was a Dom, and I knew that often came with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. I’d wait until he left for work, then leave. I didn’t want to be a problem for him. He’d been kind enough. And I had a realtor to call.
The towel was soft and enormous, almost swallowing me whole. I dried off as best I could, careful not to jostle the sore patch on my back. The skin stung a bit, but honestly, it felt better than last night. Warmer, too. The whole bathroom was steamed up, and I stood there a few seconds, letting the heat soak in.
I pulled on my jeans and T-shirt, then just stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself. The usual brown eyes, pale skin. The few freckles on my nose. I'd never needed to shave every day, even though I had when I was working. Water dripped down my neck, and I wiped it with the towel. My reflection looked better than usual, not so haunted. Maybe it was just the good lighting, or maybe it was the food in my stomach, but for a second, I didn't hate what I saw.
I padded to the bedroom where I’d left my bag. The apartment was so quiet. I peered out into the hallway, but there was no sound. No Felix. I tried not to be disappointed, but the ache in my chest had teeth, and it bit down hard.
He’d said he had to go to work. That was normal. People had jobs. People had places to be. Maybe I’d just dreamed the whole thing, the warmth in his voice, the hand on my neck, the wayhe’d told me I’d done well. Maybe it was just aftercare, a one-off. I wasn’t allowed to hope for more than that.
But on the kitchen counter, there was a note. My name, written in thick blue pen.
Clayton—
Eat. Rest. Stay off your feet. Text if you need anything. -F
I stared at the note for a long time, wishing I could stay, but I didn’t want to be a responsibility he would resent. I had a second cup of coffee, staring at the city through the window.
I hated being alone. I’d spent a year trying to convince myself I was fine with it, but the truth was, I was awful at it. I liked being needed. I’d been in relationships for most of my adult life, even if they'd been casual. Jason had been the longest—even if it had all gone wrong. He’d expected it, but I’d adored taking care of the apartment, his laundry. We hadn’t needed a cleaner even with my job and my mom. I thought for a long time before I replied to his note, then simply said I had an appointment about the bungalow. I didn’t, but it was enough incentive to make one, which I did for three pm this afternoon. I took my time making sure the apartment was spotless before I left.
