I took every spoon away from him.
“Hey,” he protested, staring at me like I’d kicked a puppy. “That’s my emotional support cutlery.”
“You’ve abused the privilege.”
“I have rights.”
“You don’t actually. Not here.”
His pout deepened. “Rude.”
I turned to leave.
“Hey,” he called after me.
I paused despite myself.
“If I start beatboxing, are you going to tape my mouth shut? Maybe tie me to the bed again? Blindfold me? Drip hot wax on—”
I shut the door.
The silence afterward had been…noticeable.
But ever since, I’ve felt that same irritation scratching at theback of my skull. The same awareness. The same sense that he’s pushing, probing, searching for weak points.
The worst part?
He’s finding them.
And I can’t decide if that makes me want to kill him or hope that I don’t have to.
Even if I don’twantto kill him, I will if that’s what the job turns into. I’ve done worse for less reasons. Attachment is a choice, and I can choose not to indulge it.
Who knew choosing a path as a hired mercenary would require this much emotional discipline?
I exhale slowly and lean back in my chair, eyes drifting to Cason’s monitor out of habit.
He’s pacing again. He does that when he’s restless, when the silence stretches too long. He walks the length of his room, tapping his fingers against his thighs. He talks to himself sometimes. To the walls he knows won’t talk back. Or to me through the camera he knows is there. Humor as a shield. Defiance as a distraction.
Earlier, in the shower—
I shut that thought down before it spirals.
It wasn’t about attraction, the reason I looked. It was observation. Assessment. He uses his body like a weapon when he’s cornered, and I need to know how to defend against it in case I ever end up with my hard cock pressed against his ass again.
I can’t let him destabilize me like that anymore.
Then there was the way he went quiet when he talked about his father. That wasn’t strategy or flirtation. That was something else, something real. The first real part of him he’s shown me.
I shouldn’t have given him my name.
I stand abruptly and head upstairs to the kitchen before I can think too hard about it. I open the fridge and take out all theingredients for the same kind of sandwich I’ve been making him all week. Turkey. Cheese. Extra mustard. It’s become automatic at this point.
When I head back downstairs, I pause at the bottom of the steps. I look over at the door to Cason’s room, then down to the two sandwiches in my hands.
For some fucking reason, I decide to break routine.
Setting the two plates on my desk, I go to Cason’s door, unlock it, and pull. He looks up immediately and comes to a stop in the middle of the room. It’s only been a couple hours since his shower, and his blond hair looks soft now that it’s dry.
