“Bye,” I mutter, opening the post on social media Max is referring to. I expand the comment section, seeing several that make me clench my fists around my phone.
FightFan24:
I bet Bash the Smasher will be too worried about ruining that pretty face to get his hands dirty.
grappling.junkie:
I heard he’s from high society…what the heck is he doing in the ring?
spar_ton:
Just because he won his debut match doesn’t mean he can stand a chance against this guy.
Adrenaline races through me.I need a smoke.But I press my hands against my temples to calm myself.God, help me.
Reaching for my fidget spinner, I try to ignore the pressure I’m experiencing.
Deep breaths, Bash. You’ve got this. You’re going to prove to your parents this wasn’t all for nothing and you’re not the embarrassment they think you are, and?—
A soft knock sounds on the front door. I freeze.Romilly is here.
I was excited to see her, but now I feel like a mess. I catch sight of myself in the mirror hanging on the entry corridor and wince. My hair is chaotic. The white shirt and grey sweatpants I’m wearing felt like pajamas only moments ago—perfectly appropriate for breakfast. But now, they make me feel rumpled and underdressed.
Another knock. I open the door.
Romilly smiles from the other side in a pink sweater and black leggings. Her hair is in a loose braid, draped over the front of her shoulder. Seeing her does something to calm my racing heart, and when I swallow hard, her brows draw together in concern. “Are you okay?”
How does she know already? Is it that obvious, or does she just know me that well? “I’m fine. Come in.” I step aside so she can enter, my hand finding her lower back without my permission as she crosses the threshold.
I expect to touch her sweater, but my hand meets warm skin because the garment is cropped. My entire body feels like it’s been singed as her soft skin slides against my fingertips, so I jerk my hand away.
When we’re in the kitchen and she sets her bag on the counter, she glares at me. “I know something’s wrong. Tell me.”
“So bossy, pumpkin. We’re not at work, you know.”
She crosses her arms, but her mouth twitches like she wants to smile. “First of all, you’re right. That was bossy, and I apologize. Second, I?—”
“I know, I know. You’re not my pumpkin.”
“Actually, I was going to say I can tell something’s wrong and I’m willing to listen.”
Of course she is. Because no one can resist doing a good deed like Romilly.
“Sit, and at least let me get you some loaf before I start unloading all my problems onto you.” I pull out a chair for her, and a blush covers her cheeks as she sits.
“Thank you.”
I serve us both a slice and pour coffee into mugs, adding cream and one stevia leaf sweetener pack into hers, just the way she likes.
I watch to make sure she takes a bite. I know we aren’t at work, but who knows if she’ll actually nourish her body anyway? I have her pattern memorized—take care of everyone else first and Romilly last. And if it were up to her, this morning would be no exception.
We eat in silence. Soon, I’m on my third slice before she’s even halfway through her first, and as she chews, a faraway look enters her eye.
“I’d love to know what’s going through your mind.” I pop another bite into my mouth as I gaze at her from across the table. Even here, in her simple pink sweater and black leggings, she manages to look beautiful. Romilly somehow owns every space she’s in. It’s like the world bends to accommodate her rather than the other way around.
She smirks. “I was just wondering if you eat everything sweet you encounter in one bite or in two.”
I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest with mock offense. “Romilly, do I look like the kind of man who doesn’t savor his carbs?”
