Wanted.
Which is ridiculous.
This is not the time to be emotionally feral.
I clear my throat and shove the folder back into the pile like it’s guilty. “Okay. Well. He’s on Chen’s radar now.”
Crewe nods once. “Good.”
The air between us holds.
Then my stomach growls, loud enough to ruin the tension.
I stare at the ceiling like it personally betrayed me.
Crewe’s mouth tilts. “Dinner.”
“Please,” I mutter. “My body would like to remind me that survival requires food, not just anxiety.”
He moves around the kitchen like he belongs in it, pulling ingredients out of the stocked fridge.
Then he pauses. Slowly holds up a package of cheese like it’s evidence in a trial.
He looks at me.
I glare. “Don’t.”
“Just checking,” he says, deadpan. “You still hate cheddar?”
“With my whole soul.”
He sets it back like it offended him. “Why, though?”
“Because it tastes fake,” I say, grabbing plates from a cabinet. “It’s too sharp but also weirdly bland. It’s orange for no reason. It squeaks sometimes. It’s the haunted house of dairy.”
Crewe hums, amused, and starts cooking something simple—pasta, I think, with whatever he can find that doesn’t involve my mortal enemy. The domesticity of it hits me unexpectedly.
This man jumped into a blizzard for a stranger. Took down a rogue drone. Threatened invisible enemies on my behalf.
Now he’s boiling water like this is normal.
It makes my heart do something stupid.
We eat at the small table near the window while the storm presses in on the world outside. The cabin light makes everything softer—the wood grain, the steam from the food, Crewe’s face.
He eats like he does everything else—calm, efficient, but not rushed. Like he’s built for patience.
I poke at my pasta. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
He looks up. “For what?”
“For… not treating me like I’m fragile,” I admit. “For letting me dig through my notes like a lunatic. For calling Chen without making me feel crazy.”
His gaze holds mine. “You’re not crazy.”
That simple certainty hits harder than it should.
I swallow. “Can I ask you something?”
