"You ordered from four different restaurants?"
The foods he ordered aren't just breakfast or lunch; they're experiences.
"I didn't want to wake you," Anton explains, his voice carrying that careful consideration that makes my heart skip. "So I ordered a variety. Do you want something else?"
He anticipated my hunger, my preferences, my needs, all while I slept in his bed.
"No, this is so thoughtful of you. All of it sounds delicious."
"Great. I haven't eaten either. We can sit and eat together."
I've already claimed a spot at the kitchen's breakfast bar, pulling one of the leather stools closer to accommodate my crutches. The island stretches between us like an expensive bridge, its black stone surface reflecting the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
Anton studies my position, his jaw tightening slightly. "I can set the table for us to eat."
"I don't mind eating here." I gesture toward the island's comfortable setup. "Plus, it would be easier for you, too."
Anton's disappointment is quickly masked by resignation. "My courtship of you hasn't worked the way I intended." His words carry unexpected vulnerability, his gray eyes meeting mine with startling honesty. "From wanting to apologize and take you to an elegant dinner, something you deserve, it came down to me stitching your foot and ordering takeout. The least I can do is set up the table for us to eat."
The confession stops my breath entirely.
Courtship! He called it courtship. Like something from another century, from a world where men pursued women with intention and ceremony instead of casual hookups and mixed signals.
"Please allow me." Now his voice drops to that gruffly tone that does dangerous things to my lady parts. "I want to at least do right by you." A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth, transforming his expression. "Never mind that I just exercised. I expected to have more time, but I did shower before exercising."
The last part, delivered with such carefully timed awkwardness, makes laughter bubble up from my chest despite everything.
Anton Baev wants to court me. With that, a million butterflies take flight in my stomach.
"Okay," I say softly, watching relief wash across his features. "Thank you."
Anton moves with purpose toward what I assume is his dining room, and I settle more comfortably on the leather stool. The kitchen island offers the perfect vantage point to watch him work while maintaining conversation distance.
Through the open archway, I catch glimpses of him arranging place settings with the same precision he applies to everything else. Crisp white linens. Crystal glasses that catch the afternoon light. The soft clink of expensive silverware being positioned exactly where it belongs.
"Anton?" I call out, curiosity finally winning over politeness.
"Yes, Solnishko?"
I'm growing attached to the way he says it.
"The Basovs must pay better than the Quinns." I keep my tone light, conversational. "Their soldiers are well compensated, but I don't think any of them could afford this lifestyle."
The soft sounds of table setting pause for a moment before resuming.
Anton reappears in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. Those gray eyes study my face with an intensity that makes my skin warm.
"What do you want to ask me, Fee?" His voice carries complete sincerity. "I'll answer anything."
The directness catches me off guard. No deflection, no careful evasion. Just an honest invitation.
"You're not just a soldier, are you?"
"No."
"What are you for the Basovs?"
Anton moves closer, positioning himself directly across from me at the island. The black stone surface stretches between us like a confession booth.
