Honestly? That’s comforting.
The man slices peppers with more precision than should be legal. He moves around his kitchen like he’s done it a thousand times, but there’s a slight stiffness in his shoulder every time he turns. Something tells me the soldier in him never quite clocked out.
He slides a plate of food in front of me and nods like he’s just fulfilled a mission.
“Eat,” he says.
I blink. “You sound like my grandma.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Was she a combat vet too?”
“She wore slippers shaped like ducks and watched Jeopardy every night. But yeah, definitely had the same tone.”
He almost—almost—smiles.
The food is incredible. Roasted chicken, garlic green beans, mashed potatoes that taste like he churned the butter himself with his bare hands. I moan around the first bite, and I swear his eyes darken.
Nate doesn’t flirt. Not really. But the air around him?Charged.It hums with this low-key, quiet sort of tension that makes me hyperaware of everything—of how big his hands are, how deep his voice is, how close he sits even when he’s trying not to.
And I can’t lie… I like it.
After dinner, he stands and says, “You trust me?”
My fork’s halfway to my mouth. “That’s an ominous way to start a conversation.”
He cracks a real smile this time, just a small one. “Come on. I want to show you a few things.”
And that’s how I end up barefoot in his living room, trying to break out of Nate Bishop’s arms without swooning like a Regency heroine.
He’s teaching me self-defense—how to break grips, how to use leverage, how to stab someone in the femoral artery with a pen. Romantic, right?
“You’re underestimating your strength,” he says, repositioning my elbow.
“I’m a server, Nate. I lift coffee pots, not combat gear.”
“Coffee pots are heavy. Try again.”
He grabs my wrist, slow and controlled, and I pivot like he taught me. He lets out a low sound of approval when I twist free.
“You’re a fast learner.”
“Fast is what I need if I’m ever going to make that creep eat pavement.”
He studies me, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nods, just once, and that approval hits me harder than I expect.
We practice until my muscles ache, until the adrenaline fades, until I’m too tired to think about anything but sleep. He offers me the bathroom first, and I take the world's longest shower, letting the hot water melt off the tension that’s clung to me for years.
When I emerge, steam follows me into the room, and Nate is kneeling on the floor by the fireplace, making up a bed like we’re in some weird domestic sleepover.
I clear my throat.
He looks up.
And freezes.
Yeah. My pajamas are… a little cute. Soft jersey tank. Fitted shorts. Nothing scandalous. But Nate looks like I just showed up in a ballgown and declared undying love.
His throat bobs with a swallow. “You, uh… you comfortable?”
