"You're fine. It was nothing." I move to the counter—slowly, giving her time to track me—and pick up the screwdriver. "I'm going to finish this cabinet. You need anything, I'm right here."
She stares at me. Waiting for the questions. The pity. Theare you sure you're okaythat really meansyou're broken and we both know it.
It doesn't come.
"I'm going to..." She gestures toward the bedroom. "I need a minute."
"Take your time."
She disappears down the hall. The door closes. Through the wall, I hear the creak of the mattress as she lands on it. Then silence. Then a sound so small I almost miss it—a muffled sob, pressed into the pillow.
I sink to the kitchen floor. Stare at the pipes I don't give a shit about.
My hands are shaking.
I scared her. Not some faceless threat—me. My size. My carelessness.
This is why I don't do this. Don't let people close.
Better I be an asshole than she end up dead.
I should have remembered that before I agreed to keep her safe.
***
She emerges an hour later. Neither of us mentions it.
I cook dinner—pork chops, nothing fancy. Just meat in a pan, some butter, garlic, whatever herbs I could find.
She eats more than she did at breakfast. Cleans her plate without me having to push.
"This is good," she says quietly.
"It's just pork."
"Still good."
Neither of us moves to clear the plates. She traces a finger along the edge of her empty plate, and I wonder what it would be like to do this every night. Cook for someone. Sit across from them. Watch them stop being afraid of me.
We wash dishes in silence. I hand her plates to dry, careful to make sure she sees my hands coming. She takes them without flinching.
When she heads to bed, she pauses in the doorway.
"Diesel."
"Yeah."
"Thank you." She doesn't say for what. "For not making it weird."
"Nothing weird about it."
She almost smiles. Holds my gaze a beat too long.
Then the door closes behind her.
I stand in the kitchen and listen for the lock.
It doesn't come.
