Something pulls in my chest, but I keep it light. “Start small, then. Start now. You’re safe here.”
She looks at me, like she’s weighing whether or not she cantrust me.
“No one’s said that to me in a long time,” she murmurs.
I don’t say anything. Just watch her as she quietly works through something.
“I went to school for criminal justice.”
She lets out a laugh, dry and humorless. “Ironic, huh? I wanted to help the world. Make a difference.”
I study her. This sharp, beautiful woman who’s wounded and armored. She stares at nothing, her eyes glazing over like she’s imagining a different life.
“I could see that. You’d be terrifying in a courtroom,” I say. “Or brilliant behind a camera.”
She blinks, like snapping out of a trance. Then grins. “You think I’m brilliant?”
“I think you’re doing a damn good job hiding the fact that you are.”
She sips her wine and leans her head back again. “You know... I think we could actually be friends.”
I smile. “We already are.”
“Don’t get sappy.”
“No promises.”
The rain keeps falling. Neither of us moves.
For the first time in weeks, the quiet feels less like waiting and more like peace.
We’re just two people pretending a little less than usual.
And honestly? It feels kind of nice.
∞∞∞
Aro—6 Months Ago…
It starts with a stupid bet.
Sean swears he can cook. I swear he can’t.
Now, there’s flour on the counter, a dozen eggs we’re never going to use, and the world’s saddest attempt at handmade ravioli sitting on a cutting board like it’s begging to be put out of its misery.
“You said you could cook,” I say, arms crossed, smirking from where I’m leaning against the marble island.
He doesn’t look up, just keeps trying to pinch the dough closed like it’s a surgical wound he’s determined to mend.
“I said I can. Not that I’m good at it.”
“That’s semantics, chef.”
“You’re a menace.”
“And you’re the one who picked pasta,” I laugh. “You could’ve made toast and won.”
He glances up at me. His smile’s crooked, eyes warm. “You think I was trying to win? I thought we were just having fun.”
