“Good. Be right back.”
And then he’s gone, striding toward the counter, his broad shoulders cutting through the space like he owns it.
Left alone, I glance around. The walls are covered in faded photos—families, sports teams, grainy snapshots of kids with messy grins holding sandwiches bigger than their heads. There’s a chalkboard menu over the counter, scribbled in bright colors. The hum of voices fills the space, warm and easy.
But my eyes keep going back to him. To his back, the way his shirt stretches across muscle, the casual ease in the way he leans over the counter and says something that makes the guy there laugh. Miles Thatcher smiling—really smiling—is something I didn’t know I needed to see.
When he comes back, he’s balancing two trays—stuffed pitas overflowing with greens, sauces, steaming falafels, and two glass bottles of Coke.
He sets one in front of me. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I say softly.
“Your phone’s charging,” he adds.
“Thank you,” I repeat, my voice even quieter.
“Try it,” he says, nodding at the food.
Self-conscious, I pick it up, the pita warm and soft in my hands. I take a bite. Flavor bursts over my tongue—spicy, tangy, rich. It’s so much better than I expected, heat prickling across my lips.
“Well?” he asks, watching me too closely.
“It’s…” I swallow, grinning despite myself. “So good. Like, really good. Way spicier than I thought.”
He smirks faintly, then digs into his own.
We eat in silence, though I can’t shake the awareness of his gaze flicking over me, steady and heavy. I keep my eyes on the pita, on the little pieces falling to the paper tray. Sauce drips onto my chin, so I reach for a napkin, embarrassed, but before I can, he leans across the table.
His thumb swipes the spot, slow, deliberate.
And then he brings it to his mouth.
Sucks it clean.
My entire body combusts. Heat surges everywhere—my chest, my throat, between my thighs. I grip tightly onto the napkin I just reached for, holding on, because if I don’t, I might melt right here in front of him.
He sits back, unbothered, going back to his food like he didn’t just casually detonate me.
I force myself to keep eating, though my hands shake.
When we finish, he gets up, brings me napkins, and places my phone on the table.
“Give me a minute,” he says, sliding out of the booth.
I nod, clutching the napkins like a lifeline.
He heads back toward the counter, talking to the same guys, his voice carrying low but warm.
I press the power button on my phone. The screen lights up, battery nearly full.
A new message flashes immediately. It’s from my dad’s lawyer.
Sorry, but we did not—
I stop reading. My stomach twists. I don’t need the rest. I already know. They’re still refusing to let me see him.
I lock the screen, shove the phone into my pocket, my throat tight, my eyes burning.
