Warm and low.
My stomach does something deeply inconvenient.
“I leave for one run,” he says.
“And come back to civilisation,” I reply.
“Hm.”
His gaze lingers on me again.
Not the breakfast this time.
Me.
The radio carries on brightly in the background, deeply unconcerned by my loss of dignity.
Mark’s eyes drop briefly to the fork still in my hand.
Then back up.
“You can continue, if you want.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “I absolutely cannot.”
“Shame.”
“It isn’t a shame. It’s a mercy.”
“For who?”
He reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over the hem of the T-shirt where it hangs against my thigh.
Just a brief touch.
Barely there.
But enough.
His eyes lift to mine.
“I think,” he says quietly, “this might be my favourite version of you so far.”
My breath catches.
Which is inconvenient.
I attempt recovery through sarcasm.
“Not surprising, considering I was covered in hamster-related trauma yesterday.”
His mouth twitches.
“Still.”
The room goes very tense around that one word.
I am suddenly aware that the fork is still in my hand like some sort of deranged emotional support baton. I setit down with what remains of my self-respect. “Breakfast. We’re moving on.”
