He’s quiet now. Jaw tight. Not looking at me much. Whatever storm hit him earlier hasn’t passed yet—he’s just ignoring the thunder. But at least he’s stopped trying to provoke me.
He’s already prepped a bowl of warm water and a cloth, perched on the counter next to the plate. Ivy’s breakfast. Ivy’s bath. Ivy’severythinglately.
Glancing over his shoulder, he speaks again. “Want some?”
I shake my head. “Not hungry.”
Liar. I'm starving. But not for food. I avoided the cell for a few days, but now, watching her sleep has become an unwelcome ritual.
Zane shrugs and spoons the scrambled mix onto the plate, then adds a pinch of salt from our dwindling stash like he's cooking for royalty.
It fucking bothers me. More than I’m willing to admit.
Leaning against the doorway with my coffee, I cross my arms and watch. Grinding down the thoughts that try to crawl back in.
Shelooked so good last week. And that hoodie didn’t leave much to the imagination.
But it was just a momentary lapse in my control. Won’t happen next time.
Zane sets the plate down, wipes his hands on the tea towel, and starts arranging the tray.
“I was thinking,” I say, tone easy. “...might be good to take her to the locker room sometime. Give her a proper shower. She’s been here a month. She can’t keep sponge bathing in a jail cell or she’ll start to stink.”
His smirk falters, and there’s something under it. Not quite annoyance—more like he’s flinching inward.
What the fuck is that about?
“Yeah… she could use one,” he mutters. “But I—” he pauses, “I probably shouldn’t be the one to take her.”
That catches me off guard.
“Why not?”
He grabs the tea towel again, folding it like he’s punishing it.
“Don’t think I can keep my shit together today,” he grumbles.
I nod slowly. “Alright,” I say, reluctantly. “I can take her.”
Zane tosses the towel onto the counter and finally looks at me, a faint tic cutting across his jaw.
“Do me a favour and take her soon, yeah?” he says. “She still smells like Myles.”
“Not funny,” I mutter.
“Didn’t say it was.”
The words land like a slap.You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. That’d explain Zane’s shitty mood.
He lifts the tray and walks past me toward thehallway.
“Want me to comb her hair next?” I throw in sardonically.
Zane pauses and glances back at me sideways, that smug spark returning. “If you do, make sure to braid it too. She hates knots.”
I snort, a grin pulling at my cheeks.
Myles never appreciated that Zane deflects with humour to keep himself in control. We should all be grateful that he even tries. Because if he ever stopped… he’d scare whatever demons rile Myles up and have them running back to hell.
