She swallows.
“And you?” she asks, soft but not meek. “Do you get to tell me what to do?”
Good. That’s the right question.
I hold her gaze.
“I get to tell you what keeps you safe,” I say. “You get to decide whether you trust me enough to listen.”
Silence stretches between us, tight and charged.
Then her stomach growls, loud in the small room.
Her eyes go wide, horrified.
I should not laugh. I do anyway, a short huff of sound.
She presses a hand to her stomach like she can muzzle it. “Traitor.”
Something warm sparks low in my chest. Familiar, but not. Like something I’d forgotten I could feel.
“I’ll feed you,” I say. “Sit.”
Her lips curve, and the smile lands like a hit. “Bossy.”
“Protective,” I correct, and turn toward the cabinets before I do something stupid like lean closer. “If I were being bossy, you'd already be in my lap and out of breath.”
I grind my teeth and focus on the cabinet.
Behind me, there’s a sharp inhale. No words. Just the kind of silence that meansshe heard every syllable.
When I glance over, her eyes are on the counter, but her grip on the mug is white-knuckled, and her cheeks are flushed.
She clears her throat, like she's dragging herself back to neutral.
“Fine,” she says, voice a little rougher than before. “Feed me. And maybe tell me why everyone calls you Saint when you talk like a sinner.”
Heat coils low in my gut at the way she says sinner, casual and sharp. The image of her saying it differently flashes through my head.
I shut the cabinet door harder than I need to.
“Another time,” I say, rougher than I mean to.
The safe house has a small propane fridge with a freezer compartment. Practical, not fancy. The kind of thing that keepsthe basics alive long enough to matter. I pull a wrapped loaf from the freezer, then a vacuum-sealed pack of sliced cheese.
“For now,” I add, “grilled cheese is what you get.”
“Do you put mayo on the outside?” she asks.
I glance over my shoulder, surprised. “That’s the only way to get the crisp right.”
“Good,” she says, dead serious. “Because if you said butter, I’d have to reassess this entire rescue.”
The woman was surrounded on the side of the road less than an hour ago, and she’s threatening my credibility over sandwich preparation.
I shake my head and reach for a pan.
I’m used to women looking at me with fear or expectation.
