Page 125 of Nyx

"What kind of foods do you like?" she asks as she grabs one of the shopping carts from the row at the front of the store.

If only I were here with her because we were planning our week together rather than being tasked with keeping a psycho from hurting her.

It's not that I have to keep reminding myself that we aren't some happy, domesticated couple making simple plans. I know what my job is.

I just wish things were different for her.

"I'm good," I say as I look around the store, noting the girl at the front register on her phone who doesn't even bother to look up when we walk inside.

A man in his mid-twenties is stocking canned fruit juice in the center aisle, and as we turn the first corner, I key in on the older man taking notes on a piece of paper as he looks over the meat counter.

I pause, my hand sliding out to press against the front of her cart when another shopping cart pops out from a different aisle. A mom with a little girl in the children's seat notices us, but her little girl is too distracted watching a show on a tablet to notice we're there.

The woman quickly pulls her eyes away from us and shuffles away.

"You scared her," Juliet mutters.

"I'm just standing here," I argue.

"It's the scowl," she counters.

"It's just my face," I grumble.

She pauses, her eyes fully on my face, and it makes me want to shift my weight from one foot to the other, but then her eyes drop, landing on my mouth.

It's literally insane, an unexplainable reaction, the way my body feels like I'm being struck by lightning every time she focuses on me.

I feel like a lottery winner, like a man whose prayers have been answered, even though it's been decades since I spoke to God.

"It's a nice face," she says with a shrug as she pulls her eyes away. "But you have this default death stare."

"I don't," I argue, knowing full well that I do.

I like talking to her, and it's just one more thing that fascinates me. I've never been much of a talker. I learned early in life that staying silent kept me safer, and when I did speak up, no one seemed to listen. Not the teachers at my school, not the nosy neighbor, and not even the doctor my mom took me to when I had a broken arm, a gift from my dad at twelve years old.

She laughs, and the sound wraps all the way around me, invading every sense, and as much as I'd like to just stand here and let it roam all over me, I can't. Getting distracted isn't an option.

Distraction is what gets people hurt, and I won't be the man who fails her on any level.

"So, what do you want?" she asks as she places a half loaf of fresh bread into the shopping cart.

"I don't need anything," I tell her.

She pauses, an annoyed look in her eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest.

"We aren't leaving until you get something," she says, and I can tell by the stubborn set of her jaw that she means it.

"What are you getting?" I counter.

"I'm not much of a cook, but I've been wanting chicken alfredo and tacos."

"I like both of those," I confess, not exactly hating the idea of sharing meals with her.

"Don't get too excited," she says with a flat smile. "I use jarred sauce."

"Sounds delicious," I say, because even with jarred sauce, chicken alfredo seems like a hassle anyway.

I'm not one to care much about what I eat, so long as my stomach doesn't grumble. I don't plan my days around food, and thankfully, there's always someone at the clubhouse who has cooked enough for others. I never go hungry, that's for sure.