I grab two ceramic bowls from her cabinet and serve up two hearty portions. Hers gets more cornbread, and I pass it to her like it’s the crown jewel of the South.
“Enjoy, dollface,” I say, putting a little extra cocky into my grin. “Maverick Hayes’ specialty.”
She lifts a brow, accepting the bowl with both hands. “Yeah, sure, if my stomach hurts later, it’s on you.”
We sit side by side on her tiny couch, our knees brushing now and then, with the sound ofScreamfilling the room.
She doesn’t compliment my chili, but she goes back for seconds, and that’s enough to make my chest puff up like an idiot.
When she finally leans back, full and quiet, her fingersstill faintly stained with cornbread crumbs, I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.
She catches me looking, but doesn’t say anything as she nudges my foot with hers under the blanket.
In this quiet, peaceful moment, with Rex watching me from the armchair and her head leaning back against the cushion, I realize something I have been longing for.
I don’t want to fake this, not even a little.
amelia
. . .
Istir, rolling onto my side with the sheets tangled around my legs. My tank top clings to my skin, warm from sleep, while the room remains dim except for the faint glow of city lights slipping through the blinds.
Rex shifts at the foot of the bed, ears twitching, but he doesn’t move. That’s when I hear it—soft shuffling, the sound of footsteps carrying through the apartment.
I push the blanket off, shivering at the sharp bite of cold air against my skin as I get to my feet. My chest feels tight, but it’s from the silence breaking in a place that should be still.
Padding down the hall, I catch the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint echo of pacing. When I step into the kitchen, I stop short.
Maverick is there.
He’s barefoot, wearing only sweatpants, pacing back and forth on the tile as if he can’t stop. His hands keep raking through his hair, tugging until the strands stand up at odd angles.
I hover in the doorway, the city lights spilling over hisshoulders, watching him unravel in the middle of my kitchen.
But as soon as he hears me, his expression shifts. His back stiffens, his eyes soften, and that hint of something haunted vanishes beneath a practiced ease.
“You good?” he asks, voice quiet but steady.
I nod too fast. “Yeah, just needed some water.”
He watches me for a beat, then continues tapping on the glass next to him.
I make my way into the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it at the sink, and sip slowly.
When I turn around, he’s still looking at me. His tortured blue eyes find mine, and there’s something about how his goofy demeanor is gone; he looks broken.
“What’re you doing up?” I ask, leaning against the counter, keeping my voice even.
He shrugs as his eyes drop to his glass. “Couldn’t sleep.”
I study him for a second.
His fingers grip the rim tighter, and his jaw clenches as if he’s swallowing something he doesn’t want to say. He looks tired, maybe a little sad, even a bit lost.
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
For a second, it seems like he might tell me. His lips part, his shoulders sag. But then he swallows it down, the way people do when they’ve been taught no one really wants to hear the answer.
