I rolled my eyes. “Can’t you call in sick?”
She tilted her head slightly. “I might have to. I’m not entirely convinced I can walk in a straight line.”
The grin that pulled at my mouth came too easily, too full of satisfaction to be remotely dignified. But beneath it was something else. Some part of me had still been carrying the fear that I might not be enough for her. Looking at her now, warm and rumpled and making that dry little joke, I felt that fear fall away.
“That sounds like a glowing review,” I said.
“Five stars. Highly recommended. Would absolutely come again.” She nodded solemnly, then stretched, arching her back in a way that made the sheet slip lower and revealed one flushed pink nipple. My gaze caught there at once. I thought of how it had felt in my mouth the night before, and had to drag myself back from the edge of that memory before I did something deeply unhelpful.
If I let myself stay in that bed for even another minute, I was not going to let her leave it for the next several hours.
“All right,” I said, forcing my voice back into something usable. “At least let me feed you before you go. It’s the least I can do.”
She arched a brow as I got out of bed, my legs steadier than they had been the night before.
“You cook?” she asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
I glanced back at her as I reached for the sweatpants draped over the chair and pulled them on. “You sound doubtful.”
“I’m trying to imagine it,” she said. “You, preparing breakfast. It’s unsettling.”
I let out a soft snort.
I was halfway into my sweatpants before it fully registered that she was watching me in the clear wash of morning light, and even then the instinct to turn away never came. She had alreadyseen all of me—the scars, the tattoos, the body I had carved into usefulness through discipline, pain, and refusal—and none of it felt like something to brace against anymore.
For the first time in my life, being looked at did not feel like being measured. It felt like peace.
“When my mother was pregnant with Vicky, it wasn’t easy for her,” I said as I tugged the waistband into place. “It was a difficult pregnancy. Risky enough that she spent most of it on bed rest. My father and I had to learn quickly how to be useful.”
I shrugged, though the memory still felt heavier than I liked. It was a dark time for all of us. My mother nearly died. Victoria too. I saw my father come closer to madness then than at almost any other point in my life, and somehow the cooking we did for her became one of the few things that steadied the house. It gave us something practical to do with our fear. Over time, it stayed. Cooking became one of those quiet rituals that belonged to family, comfort, and home.
It was also during that time that I first understood the depth of my father’s love for my mother, and if I was honest, part of me had hoped for years that kind of love would never find me. It had always seemed too consuming, too dangerous. And yet, standing there watching the woman in my bed, I knew it had found me all the same. For all the fear that came with it, I was grateful.
“Any preference?” I asked, my voice rougher than it ought to have been.
She smiled sleepily. “No. Surprise me.”
I nodded and looked at her one more time, already regretting the basic responsibilities of adult life, before forcing myself toward the kitchen.
By the time I was finishing the bacon, she appeared again, freshly showered and dressed, her hair still damp at the ends.
“It’s much later than I thought,” she said, stopping in the doorway. “I wouldn’t have time to shower at home before my seminar. I hope you don’t mind that I used your things.”
I looked up at her, then deliberately let my gaze drift over the clean, soft version of her that had come out of my bathroom smelling faintly of my soap.
“You smelling like me?” I said. “Hardly.”
She rolled her eyes. “Dork.”
“Ungrateful woman. I’m feeding you.”
“And yet somehow still managing to be unbearable.”
I set the plates down anyway and watched with satisfaction as she sat at my kitchen island like she belonged there. Which, for the purposes of my peace of mind, I had decided she did.
We ate in an easy quiet at first, the kind that no longer felt awkward or new. She told me about her seminar. I told her a heavily edited version of my week. She stole bacon off my plate. I let her. It felt dangerously close to domestic.
Which was probably why I noticed the moment her mood shifted. It was subtle. A pause too long before she reached for her coffee. A slight tightening in her shoulders.
