My breath stops and my heart freezes. As I bite my lip and look away, a vicious heat pools in my cheeks.
Shit.
I’m not some simpering fool, an idiot who gets all doe-eyed over words, but no one’s ever mentioned wanting me to smile more.
When the heat fades and I turn back to him, his sharp eyes take me in a second before be nods to himself, then brings over two steaming bowls of whatever the hell he was cooking. He sets one in front of me with no more talk of smiling.
Thank God.
I poke at it with the spoon. "This is mush."
He flicks the side of my head as he heads back to the stovetop. "It's Cream of Wheat. Eat up, your skinny ass needs the calories."
I dig in, groaning at the first hot, creamy bite. Fuck me. I’m not sure if it’s because the shit is actually good or because I’m finally eating something hot, but I shovel it into my mouth as fast as I can.
"Slow down. No one's gonna take it from you."
"Shut it, old man," I mumble through a mouthful, already scraping up the last bit from the bowl. "Gimme more."
He brings the pot of Cream of Wheat over, then refills my empty bowl. I dig in, savoring the hot cereal.
As I finish my second portion, Rex starts boiling water to refill our bottles. Can’t be too cautious about contamination. There’s enough shit out there to kill us.
While the water heats, we double check our packs, taking stock of supplies, and switching out to warmer gear.
“Gonna talk to me about what happened earlier?”
I zip my pack and give him a blank look. “What?”
“When you froze up. Where’d you go?” He holds my gaze, his eyes soft and patient. “Not the first time you’ve zoned out like that but definitely the most intense.”
My fingernails press into my now sweaty palms hard enough to pierce skin as my pulse thrums wildly in my ears. “None of your business.”
“Devon—”
I glare at him, nostrils flaring. “We fuck. That’s it. Don’t think I have feelings for you or anything.”
His face tightens, but a muscle twitches by his eye. He turns away in one fast move to grab the empty water bottles, his shoulders rigid, then stalks back to the kitchen without looking at me.
My chest seizes up, heart pounding against my ribs as I dig my teeth into my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Is he done with me? Will he tell me to fuck off now?
I wouldn’t blame him.
But. . .
The idea of life without him is too painful to even think about, and I know, even if he tells me to fuck off, I won’t. I’ll always follow the bastard. It’s like he’s a flickering flame and I’m the stupid fucking moth that’s forever drawn toward its deadly heat.
The seconds drag on, each longer than the last.
He comes back in, our bottles refilled, then pulls out the worn map, tracing our route with a finger. "I want to hike at least sixteen miles today."
I look at him tentatively for a moment, but he just keeps his eyes on the paper below. Though my heart slows, knowing he isn’t planning on leaving me, the lump in my throat grows bigger as I follow where he’s pointing, memorizing the path as he indicates each turn and landmark. When he is satisfied I've got it down, he refolds the map, then stows it in his jacket pocket and we head out.
We walk through lunch, only pausing to rest and drink some water.
Beyond pointing out animal tracks and telling me what made them, he keeps silent. Distant even.
I fucking hate it. But I don’t want to talk about my father either.
