For a moment, I can only stare at him. My chest feels too tight, too full. No one has ever thought of me like this—so simple, so matter-of-fact, yet it feels… overwhelming. It isn’t just gratitude; it’s something deeper, sharper, something I don’t have the words for.
I swallow past the lump rising in my throat, dropping my gaze to the table.
“…Thank you,” I murmur.
The burger is warm in my hands. The first bite nearly makes me groan, relief flooding through me as the taste hits my tongue. I hadn’t realized just how empty I felt until now. The coldsweetness of the drink soothes my dry throat, and for a moment, I let myself close my eyes. Across from me, I hear movement. The fridge opens, then shuts. When I glance up, Alex is setting a bottle of water in front of me.
“You’re not eating?” My voice comes out quieter than I intend.
He shakes his head. “No.”
I frown at the spread still on the counter. “How do you expect me to finish all this?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, though his expression stays unreadable. “You will.”
Something about his tone —steady and sure —makes irritation spark under my skin. I narrow my eyes. “I won’t.”
He doesn’t argue. He just waits.
Minutes pass in silence, broken only by the sound of me chewing. By the time I reach the bottom of my drink, I freeze. There’s only one small piece of chicken left.
The realization crawls over me slowly.
Alex doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. The weight of his gaze presses against me, heavy, amused, knowing. I force myself to look up. He’s watching me, face unreadable, but his eyes give him away. They gleam with something subtle, something that makes my skin heat. Of course, he knows. He’s seen me eat here almost every day for weeks.
Embarrassment prickles up my neck, flooding my chest with warmth. He doesn’t say anything, but he starts packing the takeout paper plates.
“Go wash your hands.” He finally says, dumping them in the kitchen bin.
I push away from the stool and head for the sink. Soap lathers between my fingers, and I glance back just in time to see him leave the kitchen. The space feels too quiet without him. Iwash faster than I should, dry my hands, then linger awkwardly before finally returning to sit on the stool.
When he returns, there’s something in his hand—a medium-sized paper bag.
He sits down on the stool next to me and places the bag on the counter. I stare at it, then at him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes hold something deeper, something heavy. He doesn’t say anything. Just tilts his chin slightly—a silent command.
Open it.
I hesitate. Then, slowly, I reach for the bag, fingers brushing against the paper as I pull out what’s inside.
My breath catches.
A phone.
Brand new. Still in the box.
And not just any phone—one of the latest models, a costly brand, worth hundreds more than the one I had. I stare at it, my pulse thrumming beneath my skin.
I don’t understand.
I look back at him. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My throat feels thick, stuck between words I can’t seem to form.
“I saw your phone.”
His voice is low, measured.
I swallow.
He watches me, his gaze unwavering.
