"I live alone," he replied with a shrug. "Had to learn."
I fidgeted with the hem of my—his—t-shirt, uncertain how to navigate this new dynamic between us. Yesterday he'd brokeninto my apartment, and I'd been furious. Today he was making me breakfast after helping me with my insulin. It was so tempting.
"Walker," I began hesitantly. "About yesterday..."
His shoulders tensed slightly as he diced bell peppers with quick, efficient movements. "I was out of line," he said before I could continue. "Breaking into your apartment was inexcusable, no matter my reasons. I'm sorry, Lottie."
The simple apology caught me off guard. I'd expected justifications, explanations—not this straightforward acceptance of wrongdoing.
"I was scared," I admitted quietly. "Not just because you were there, but because someone else had been there too. Someone who went through all my things."
Walker turned, his expression serious. "I've got people looking into that. If someone targeted you specifically, we'll figure out why."
"People?" I echoed.
"My colleagues at Salvation," Walker explained, pouring beaten eggs into a hot pan. "We have resources that most private investigators would envy."
My stomach clenched at the thought of strangers investigating my life. "I don't have money to pay for that kind of help."
Walker glanced up from the omelet, his eyes serious. "No one's asking you to pay, Lottie."
"But I can't just—"
"Accept help?" He slid the spatula under the edges of the omelet with practiced ease. "Why not?"
I stared at my hands, unsure how to explain the lifetime of conditioning that had taught me independence was the only safe option. That needing help made you a burden, and burdens got left behind.
"I've always taken care of myself," I said finally. "I had to."
Walker was quiet as he folded cheese and vegetables into the omelet, his movements deliberate. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. "There's someone coming by this morning," he said. "Her name's Fiona. She works at Kingdom, our other club, and she has Type two diabetes as well. I thought she might be able to talk to you about management strategies that have worked for her."
I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again. The truth was, I could use the advice. My management had been slipping for months, and the constant stress of barely scraping by made it impossible to focus on my health the way I should.
"That would be...nice," I admitted.
Walker's expression brightened as he slid the omelet onto a plate and placed it in front of me. "Eat while it's hot. I'll make another for myself."
The food smelled amazing—fluffy eggs, a little melted cheese, and perfectly sautéed vegetables. My stomach growled loudly, and I felt heat climb my face. "Thank you," I murmured, picking up the fork.
Walker just nodded, already cracking more eggs for his own breakfast. I took a small bite, then another, surprised by how good it tasted. Before I knew it, I'd cleaned the plate.
"More?" Walker asked, eyebrow raised as he noticed my empty plate.
I shook my head, embarrassed by how quickly I'd devoured the food. "That was perfect."
He sat across from me with his own omelet, his dark eyes studying me as he ate. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.
"What?" I asked finally.
"Why you didn't tell me about your diabetes when I was helping you after the attack?"
I looked away, heat rising to my cheeks. "It's not something I like to talk about."
"Even when it was putting your health at risk?"
His tone wasn't accusatory, just genuinely confused, which somehow made it worse. I wrapped my arms around myself protectively. "My uncle...he wasn't exactly thrilled when I was diagnosed."
Walker waited patiently, giving me space to find the words.
