“Terrifying,” she says, reading the message. “I love him.”
I grab my bag and stand, smoothing my blazer. “You’re impossible.”
She follows me toward the elevators anyway, grabbing her coat and purse from her desk. “I’m going too. Damien and I are watching the game from O’Malley’s with Em and Killian.”
“That’s right,” I drawl. “Poor you. Can’t even use alcohol as a coping mechanism to get through it.”
Mor’s giggles are just adorable. I love seeing her this happy, her softly rounded pregnancy belly just starting to show, her tawny skin glowing.
Caleb is waiting right where he always is, leaning casually near the entrance like he belongs there. Dark jacket. Broad shoulders. That familiar, steady presence that makes my spine loosen the second I spot him.
His eyes find me instantly. “Hey,” he says.
The word is simple. The way he says it is not.
“Hey,” I reply, suddenly aware of my hair, my posture, my everything.
Morgan slows just enough to stage-whisper, “Yup. That’s a bodyguard.”
Caleb’s mouth twitches. “Good night, Morgan.”
She beams. “You too, Aegis.”
He grimaces, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
Outside, the late afternoon air is damp and cool, that particular early-spring New York chill that smells like rain and asphalt. Caleb opens the passenger door for me like always, waiting until I’m settled before closing it.
“Thought we could stop by the store,” he says as we pull away.
My brows lift. “Grocery store?”
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re low on vegetables. And if I don’t cook, you forget to eat actual meals.”
“I do not?—”
“You had crackers and hummus for dinner two nights ago.”
I open my mouth, then close it. “That’s… balanced.”
He huffs softly. “Sure.”
The grocery store is busy but not chaotic, and Caleb moves through it like a man on a mission—cart in front, eyes scanning, body subtly angled so he’s always between me and everyone else.
I trail behind him, watching the way his hands move as he grabs produce, checks labels, debates brands. It’s domestic in a way that feels oddly intimate.
“You don’t have to do all this,” I say, leaning against the cart handle.
He glances at me. “I know.”
“So… why are you?”
“Because I like cooking,” he says simply. “And because you relax when you’re fed.”
My heart gives a small, traitorous squeeze.
At checkout, he pays despite my protest, loading the bags into the car with easy efficiency.
Back at the apartment, the familiar comfort wraps around me like a blanket. Poe greets us at the door, winding around Caleb’s legs like he owns him.
