Page 187 of Rush

He doesn’t answer—just steps out and opens my door. I don’t argue.

Inside, the air smells like onions and floor cleaner. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. People line up, cheeks flushed from the cold, coats hanging open, kids weaving between legs.

A little girl in a puffed-up red jacket stomps her boots to the beat of her own invisible music.

And then I see him.

Broderick, behind a steel counter, sleeves pushed up, spooning mashed potatoes like he’s done it a hundred times. His T-shirt clings to his back, damp at the collar. There’s a smear of something across the hem—gravy, maybe. Or paint. No idea.

Just seeing him—solid, focused,here—settles something in me I didn’t even realize was splintering.

I watch him for a moment, and it really puts things into perspective. While I’d just escaped the Montgomery inquisition wrapped in all its finery—untouchable—he’s here.

And I wonder why.

Someone like him could have easily written a check. Does he do this for the publicity? I glance around, but nothing suggests that.

He really is a good man.

He looks up, spots me—a huge grin spreading across his face, those perfect dimples on full display.

I walk up to him, a few of the other volunteers smiling as I pass.

“You gonna help or just stare?” he asks.

I’m grateful he doesn’t prod about what happened. He has an uncanny way of knowing exactly what I need—there’s a comfort in that.

“Put me to work.”

“Here you go baby.” He hands me an apron, still warm from the dryer. I tie it on without another word and take over the green beans.

We work in silence. Not awkward. Just...easy. It feels...nice. Serving others who need it most.

Every so often, he glances sideways, like he’s checking I’m still there.

A boy in a Spider-Man beanie grins up at him. “You look like the Hulk.”

Broderick grins back. “You callin’ me green?”

The kid shrugs. “You’re big.”

“Fair,” he says. “It’s all the green beans.” He nudges me.

The kid’s not wrong.

Broderick’s massive. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Solid and strong.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Trying not to picture him without the T-shirt.

My body betrays me anyway—not now hormones.

He passes the kid a plate, eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Damn, El—no smart remark about being called the Hulk? You must be upset,” he says, nudging me with his elbow again.

I shrug, unsure where to even begin.

“It’s not like you to be quiet. Tell me what’s going on.”