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The casual certainty in his voice had me reaching for my coffee to cover my reaction. This man knew how to derail my thoughts, and it was too damn early for bedside confessions. Wait, wasn’t that about dying? Whatever.

Deadeye speared a piece of French toast from his own plate and held it out toward me. The syrup dripped slowly from the corner of the bread, landing on my plate.

“Try this piece,” he said. “It’s got more cinnamon.”

“I have my own toast.”

“This one’s better.”

My gaze swung from the fork to his face. His expression was the same look he’d worn while teaching me about water tank valves and cabinet hinges. Like feeding me breakfast in bed was just another task he seemed to enjoy.

Leaning forward, I let him guide the fork past my lips. The toast was sweeter than the piece I’d been eating, the cinnamon more pronounced. I chewed slowly, hyperaware of his eyes tracking the movement of my jaw.

“Well?” he asked.

“You’re insufferable,” I said after swallowing, dying for another bite. “That was better.”

He grinned and cut another piece, holding it up like he’d read my mind. If he could read it, he’d probably run away screaming, or schedule a psych eval.

I took that one too, letting my lips close around the tines while his gaze stayed fixed on my mouth. The intimacy of the gesture was ridiculous and completely unexpected from someone who’d spent yesterday teaching me how to unclog drains.

“You’re going to spoil me,” I said, slowly chewing the delicious bite.

“Maybe I want to.”

“Then you’re an idiot.” Or I was for believing my life had a happy ending attached to it. My father’s psychological damage was a gift that kept on giving.

“Probably.”

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, shattering the moment. I glanced at the screen and felt reality crash back in with all the grace of a falling piano. Mrs. Calloway’s name glowed in stark black letters, and below it, a message that made me mentally curse at her shitty timing.

Maintenance requests for today. 2A sink. 4C window. Hallway light on first floor. Come by office for full list.

Working for a living sucked balls.

“Your job?” Deadeye asked.

“My tyrannical overlord summons me.” I set the coffee mug aside and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The sheet tangled around my ankles, and I kicked it free like a lunatic escaping a straitjacket for feet. “Apparently, the building is falling apart and only I can save it. She should’ve included a flapping cape and tights as a job package.”

“You’re the only maintenance tech,” Deadeye said, staring at me like he was trying to imagine me in those tights. Perv.

“A tragic oversight on their part.”

Finding my clothes required a scavenger hunt across his bedroom floor. The skirt was under Deadeye’s pillow for some suspicious reason. My top was halfway under the nightstand. The boots sat neatly by the door, which meant he’d moved them at some point while I was asleep. The thoughtfulness of that small gesture made me want to jump his bones.

And my shorts took ten full minutes to locate. How they’d ended up behind the headboard was anyone’s guess.

Dressing quickly, I avoided looking at the bed or I might beg him to fuck me again, which would’ve lost me my job.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said.

He pulled on a shirt while I finger-combed my hair into something approaching intentional. The mirror above his dresser reflected a person I almost didn’t recognize—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, a mark on my shoulder that peeked out from beneath my tank top strap. I tugged the fabric higher and turned away, unwilling to examine the bite too closely.

Before I left, I stuffed another piece of French toast into my mouth and grabbed a strip of bacon for the road.

Outside, the garage was already humming. Someone had opened all three bay doors, and morning light flooded the concrete floor. A car sat with its hood propped open on one of the racks. Riot was bent over the engine, muttering something that sounded profane.

He glanced up as we passed, his eyes moving from me to Deadeye. One eyebrow lifted.