“Traitor,” I tell my cat.
Caleb snorts. “He likes me because I respect his boundaries.”
“That is not true. You let him sleep on your boots.”
“Exactly.”
While Caleb starts unpacking groceries, I kick off my shoes and curl up on the couch, tucking my legs beneath me. I flip on the TV more for background noise than anything else.
Mostly, I just watch him.
The way he moves around my kitchen like it’s always been his. Sleeves rolled up. Forearms flexing as he chops vegetables with precise, controlled motions. Music low from his phone—something instrumental, steady.
It’s… nice.
Too nice.
“You can relax,” he says without turning around. “I’ve got it.”
“I am relaxing,” I insist.
He glances back, eyebrow raised. “You’re staring.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’m… supervising.”
“Uh-huh.”
He goes back to cooking, but the corner of his mouth lifts.
I hug a pillow to my chest, heart thudding a little harder thanit should. There’s something dangerously comforting about this—about him being here, taking care of things, of me.
Dinner smells incredible by the time he’s done. He plates everything neatly and brings my dish over to the coffee table.
“Eat,” he says gently.
I do. And it’s perfect.
For a while, we sit in companionable silence, the city humming outside, the TV murmuring softly.
“This is… really good,” I say.
He nods. “Glad.”
I glance at him. “You ever get tired of… hovering?”
His jaw tightens, just a little. “No.”
The answer is immediate. Honest.
Something warm settles in my chest, equal parts comfort and something more dangerous.
I look back at my plate, smiling softly.
“Game’s about to start,” he says casually.
“Uh-huh,” I hum. “Is that a professional observation, or are you saying you want to put it on?”
Caleb’s grin is heart-stoppingly beautiful.
