I can’t stop staring.
Neither can he.
The air goes heavy between us, thick with something I can’t name but feel everywhere in my chest, in my throat, low in my stomach. His gaze drags over me: my messy hair, my bare feet on the cold marble, the oversized shirt hanging off me—his shirt. Heat crawls up my neck as his eyes linger there, and I tug at the hem like it might shield me from him.
Then it happens.
Grumble.
The loudest, most humiliating growl my stomach has ever produced. The sound practically echoes in the silence.
I want to drop dead on the spot. Right here. Right now.
Honestly, with the number of times I embarrass myself in front of this man, I should have a PhD in it. I’m shocked I haven’t tripped over my own feet and split my head open in front of him yet.
His lips twitch. The faintest hint of a smirk. He doesn’t say anything, but that almost-smile makes it worse. He just tilts the bag in his hand, voice smooth and deep enough to vibrate through me.
“You’re hungry.”
My throat works around a knot.
“No.”
Grumble.
His eyebrow lifts, slow and deliberate.
I close my eyes.
“Maybe.”
When I look at him again, there’s something flickering in his gaze. Not judgment. Not mockery. Something softer, like I’ve just handed him a secret.
He shakes his head, low amusement in the movement, then he heads to the kitchen, and I join him. He sets the helmet on the counter, then the takeout bag lands there next, sliding toward me.
“I figured you would be.”
I blink at the bag, then at him.
“You went out to get food?”
He shrugs, the motion casual, but his eyes never leave mine.
“Went out to take care of something.”
I pull the containers free one by one and set them on the counter. A massive vanilla iced coffee. Beef burgers wrapped in grease-stained paper. Loaded fries dripping with cheese.Chicken tenders with more dipping sauces than anyone needs at four in the morning.
I just stare. Because these aren’t random choices. These are mine.
Slowly, I look back at him. He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed over his chest, the play of muscle obvious even through the shirt. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes are locked on me, watching every flicker of surprise and disbelief on my face.
The kitchen light is dim, catching on the hard edges of his jaw, throwing half his face into shadow. He looks sharp, dangerous, untouchable. But in the silence, with the smell of burgers filling the space and his attention pressed entirely on me, all I can feel is the pull—magnetic and relentless—dragging me closer to him even when I don’t move.
Before I can ask anything, he speaks.
“I was coming back from my ride. Passed a 24-hour diner and picked something up.” His tone is deliberately casual, but there’s something under it, something heavier. Then, after a beat, he adds,
“You slept early. I figured you’d wake up early, and you might be hungry.”
