What are you?
Before the question could root itself too deep, a stronger scent hit me. Savoury and sweet.
My brain stirred.Is he...cooking?
My stomach gave an indignant growl, confirming the suspicion. Then another, louder. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and now the scent of food was enough to make my insides churn with need.
I swallowed, walked to the door, and slowly turned the handle. It creaked slightly as I opened it, and I slipped out.
The smell intensified the moment I stepped outside my room, inviting in a way that made it impossible not to breathe deeper. I frowned. Why did it smell good?
What the hell was he making?
Curiosity, annoying and relentless, pushed me forward. I crept towards the stairs, careful not to make a sound. Although he was making enough noise on his own, I didn’t want him to hear me. I didn’t even want to see him.
Not after I’d passed out in his arms.
Not after he helped me. Again.
How would I have him out of my place if I kept owing him? Ugh.
There was a shame that came with that. Humiliating and hot. Like I’d lost something each time I blacked out, and he took it without asking.
I gripped the railing tightly, praying the wood wouldn’t betray me. Three steps from the landing, I stopped, held my breath and listened. He was still there, still moving in the kitchen. And I stayed frozen on the stairs for a while, caught between hunger and embarrassment, wondering why exactly I should be feeling this way when he’d done worse, including stalking me, and he was comfortable enough to show his face and mess around.
Sighing, I pushed my hunger aside and turned to climb the stairs again. But I barely raised my leg before his voice broke through the quiet.
“Do you prefer the food being brought to your room, then?”
I froze.
He knew?He knew I was here the entire time?
Shame curled in my stomach. I shut my eyes and bit down on my lip until I tasted the faintest trace of iron. I let the embarrassment wash through me in a crashing wave, waited for it to settle, then I pulled in a breath, squared my shoulders, and lifted my chin.
When I turned around, I forced my legs down the remaining steps one at a time, trying to keep my movements even and unaffected. The kitchen opened in a warm yellow glow, light pooling across the floorboards like honey. He stood near the counter, carefully setting down plates. His food smelled too good, rich, seasoned, and homemade. His coat was draped over the back of one of the chairs. Could tell it was intentionally folded and placed there, and he was no longer wearing the same clothes from this morning.
He’d been out.
And I hadn’t heard a damn thing.
My gaze flicked to the food on the stove, then back to him. He was cooking something I didn’t remember buying. The ingredients weren’t mine. The dishes weren’t mine. He’d gone out, brought this in from somewhere, and was now calmly preparing dinner in a house he had no business living in.
I cleared my throat again, louder this time, and crossed my arms over my chest.
“I wasn’t hiding from you.”
He raised his head slowly, and those eyes—the ones I thought I should be used to by now—hooked right into me. They sank deep, and for a wild second, I almost spoke the truth.
“I didn’t say you were,” he said simply.
His gaze dropped slowly, dragging down the length of my body.
“Are you still hurting?”
I scoffed. “If I was, you’d be thrilled to have this house all to yourself.”
His answer came like a hammer blow. “I don’t want this house if you’re not in it. It’s you I want. Not the house.”
