Not immediately. His eyes drag back up—slow, like it costs him something—and when they reach my face, there's heat in them. Raw. Unguarded. Gone so fast I almost miss it, shuttered behind that flat amber stare.
But I saw it.
Heat floods my face. I tug at the hem with my free hand, trying to cover more of myself. "I left my bag in the bedroom. As you know. I was borrowing this to get back there."
He laughs.
It's low, barely more than a breath, but it's there. One beat of something real.
Then he turns back to the counter. "There are more in the dresser. Help yourself."
"Thank you." I start toward the bedroom.
"Sit down."
I stop. "I need to change."
"You need to eat." He doesn't look at me. "You're shaking. You've been trembling since you walked out of that bathroom. Eat first. Then change."
I want to argue. Want to tell him I don't need him managing me, feeding me, treating me like something broken.
But my hands are trembling. He's not wrong.
I set the laptop on the table beside me. Close enough to grab.
I sit.
The kitchen table is small—two chairs, barely room for plates. He'd have to fold himself in half to fit across from me. Instead he stays at the counter, his back a wall between us as he dishes pasta into a bowl.
It smells like garlic and butter and something richer underneath.
He sets it in front of me. The bowl is chipped at the rim—old, well-used. He sets a fork beside it.
"Maya's cooking. Don't get used to it." He turns back to the counter. "I'm more of a carnivore."
I stare at the pasta. Steam curls up from the bowl. The smell alone makes my stomach cramp with sudden, vicious hunger. When did I last eat? The clinic, maybe. A granola bar Maya pressed into my hand.
I eat. He cleans.
A pot clangs against the sink and I flinch so hard my fork hits the table.
He freezes.
I freeze.
My heart is pounding, breath caught somewhere in my throat.
Glass breaking. Boots on the porch. Gunshots—
"Sorry." He doesn't move. "Should've warned you."
I'm in the cottage. The pot is in the sink. He's standing three feet away, frozen like any sudden move might shatter me.
I force myself to breathe. Pick up the fork. "It's fine."
It's not fine. We both know it.
He moves differently after that. Slower. Every motion telegraphed. When he opens a cabinet, he does it gently. When he sets a dish in the drying rack, he places it instead of dropping it.
