“They’re clean,” he says flatly, already sounding like he regrets it. “Too big, probably, but I’ve got a belt. If you want them, take them.”
I can’t help but be confused.
“Are you sure?” I mutter, but I head to the closet anyway.
“Yeah.”
The moment I slide the door open, I’m hit by a stronger wave of that Cassian smell, sharper now. Less soap and sweetness. More musk and something metallic.
Inside, everything’s neatly folded and color-coded. Blacks, greys, deep greens. Military-issue shirts, worn hoodies, cargo pants.
I run my fingers over one of the hoodies, soft from years of wear, and glance back at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, watching me with that intense gaze of his.
“Can I—?”
He cuts me off. “Take whatever fits. I don’t care.”
I pull out a dark green shirt and a pair of drawstring pants. The second I do, he looks away fast, like the idea of me changing in front of him just overloaded his system.
To be fair, I could change downstairs, but…
“You’re not even curious what I picked?” I ask, already toying with the hem of my top. I’m not trying to tease, but the scrubs cling to me in that irritating, plasticky way and—
I don’t even know.
I think I’ve got a little bit of a sadist in me.
“I said I don’t care,” he repeats. I can’t help thinking he’s lying.
When I glance back, I catch the tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles have gone white from gripping his thighs. His eyes are locked on the floor, that permanent scowl carved into his face.
Except for the occasional smirk, I’ve never seen him smile. I’ve never heard him laugh.
And after what he said about his sister earlier today... I can’t help but see him in a different light.
“Alright. I’m changing,” I say.
He hums in response, and I turn around, pulling the top over my head and letting it fall to the floor.
I slip the shirt on. It’s too big, just like he said. It falls to mid-thigh, the collar wide and a little stretched. I skip the pants for now and turn back around.
“You can look now,” I murmur.
He looks up cautiously, but the moment his gaze lands on me, something changes. His mouth parts, just a little.
“I told you it’d be too big,” he says after a moment, voice low and hoarse, a little frayed at the edges.
“Yeah, but it’s comfy,” I say. “I like it.”
He rises to his feet. Takes one step forward, then another. And the closer he gets, the more unreadable his expression becomes.
It’s that look again.
The one he reserves for murdering people or moments when I have no idea what’s passing through his mind. The kind of blankness that makes me want to run. At least, lately.
I consider stepping back, just a little. Just enough to breathe.
But when he gets close enough that I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes, I stay rooted.
