“Hungry?” I ask, voice pitched casually, though there’s nothing casual about the way my shoulders tense, the way my body knows exactly where she is without turning around.
She doesn’t answer right away. I pull out the carton of eggs, the smoked salmon, and the good butter. Set them on the counter one by one, deliberately, letting the silence stretch.
Finally, her voice: “You already made breakfast this morning.”
I glance over my shoulder, catching the quick flush rising in her throat. “And?”
She lifts her chin, but her eyes won’t meet mine. “And…you don’t strike me as the type to play house.”
That earns her the smallest curve of my mouth. I step closer, crowding the space between her and the frame, not touching but close enough she feels it—close enough her breath stutters.
“I don’t play house,” I say quietly. “But I don’t let people into my house unless I want them here.”
Her pulse kicks under her skin, fast, frantic. She swallows hard, and I can see the thoughts firing behind her eyes—want and guilt, fear and defiance, all tangled up.
She tries to scoff, weak at best. “So what… I should feel lucky?”
“No,” I murmur, leaning in until my breath grazes her ear. “You should feel warned.”
Her body goes still, caught between bristling and shivering.
I straighten, step back like nothing just happened, and crack an egg into the pan. The sizzle fills the air, sharp and loud, acheap cover for the fact I’m still watching her in the reflection of the window.
She hasn’t moved. She’s biting her lip, caught up in whatever war is playing out inside her chest.
And I know, with a bone-deep certainty that borders on sick—this summer will ruin her.
And I’ll be the one holding the match.
The egg hisses in the pan, yolk bleeding gold across white, but it’s not the sound that fills the room—it’s her breathing. Soft, uneven. She’s still there in the doorway, and I know she hasn’t decided whether to leave or step closer.
I don’t help her.
Instead, I drop the spatula, slice the egg in half, and let the smell rise, rich and heavy. Then I glance back, deliberately slow, pinning her with nothing but a look.
She startles as if she’s been caught doing something filthy.
Her arms uncross, falling stiffly to her sides. She tries to pretend it’s nothing. “You’re…making enough for two?”
I let the silence stretch, my lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re brave enough to sit at my table.”
The way she swallows, the way her throat flexes, makes something sharp coil low in me. She doesn’t move, not right away, and I don’t let her off the hook. I keep cooking as if she’s invisible, as if her choice doesn’t matter at all, even though it’s the only thing that matters in this moment.
Finally, she pushes off the frame and crosses the kitchen. Barefoot, hair mussed, her mouth set in that stubborn little line that makes me want to tear it apart. She slides into a chair, every movement stiff with defiance, but I can see the tremor in her fingers when she rests them on the table.
Good girl.
I drop the plate in front of her—eggs, salmon, toast cut clean and neat. The kind of thing no one notices I do. The kind of thing no one but her will ever be allowed to see.
She stares down at it, then up at me, eyes flashing. “What is this? Some kind of performance?”
My head tilts, my gaze dragging slowly over her face, her bare shoulders, the imprint of sheets still on her skin. “If I wanted to put on a performance, Brooklyn, you wouldn’t be able to sit down right now.”
Her inhale is sharp. She grips the fork tighter.
