Page 17 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

Did he make me soup? Did this man I met yesterday make me homemade soup?

“You brought soup,” I say.

“Chicken noodle. Good for recovery.”

“You made me soup.”

“It wasn’t difficult.”

“You made me soup.”

He turns to look at me, and his expression is one I can’t quite read, one that might be concern or might be patience or might be the quiet satisfaction of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

“You don’t like soup?”

“I love soup. Soup is great. I’m just…” I wave my hand vaguely, trying to encompass the whole situation. “This is a lot. The groceries. The soup. The showing up. It’s a lot.”

“Too much?”

Yes. No. I don’t know.

“I’m not used to people taking care of me,” I admit, and the words come out smaller than I intended. “I’m usually the one who… I don’t know. Handles things. Figures it out. Makes my own soup.”

Orion is quiet for a moment, studying me with those steady gray eyes. Then he nods, once, like I’ve confirmed something he already suspected.

“I’ll try to be less overwhelming.”

“You don’t have to…”

“But I’m still cooking you breakfast.”

He cooks me breakfast.

It’s infuriating how good it is, scrambled eggs that are somehow fluffy and seasoned and nothing like the rubbery disasters I produce when I attempt to feed myself. Bacon that’s crispy but not blackened. Toast with butter that he spreads to the exact edges, no gaps, no excess.

Who butters toast this precisely? Who has the time? Who has the mental bandwidth?

“That’s a lot of attention for toast,” he says.

“Your buttering technique is very thorough.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“It’s an observation. I’ve never seen anyone butter toast with that level of commitment.”

He doesn’t respond, but I catch that almost-smile again, and warmth unfurls in my chest that I aggressively ignore.

After breakfast, he informs me that we’re opening the bookstore.

“We’re not opening anything,” I protest, following him down the stairs to Fable Tales. “I’m opening my bookstore. You’re going home to your mountain and your cat who hates you.”

“You have a concussion.”

“A mild concussion. Debra said so. I’m fine.”

“You almost fell over reaching for a coffee cup.”

“That was a spatial awareness issue, not a concussion issue. I’ve always had questionable spatial awareness.”