His voice.
His delicious body.
The heat that coils low in my belly when he’s too close.
But that’s only because I can’t have him.
That makes it safe.
Right?
It’s not like he wants me.Not really.
Men like him don’t look twice at women like me.
And I refuse—refuse—to lose myself to anyone ever again.
Oh my God, just stop thinking about the man, Willow, and go to sleep.
I resettle my blanket over me and lie back down with a long exhale.
Tomorrow I’ll get to the lunchroom half an hour earlier.
I already have a plan for soup.
Something hearty. Something warm.
Fresh vegetables. Less salt.
Something that feels like care.
Tim and Arthur were two of the men discussing their health at lunch the other day which was when I got the notion in my head to work on better meals.
Thinking about that makes me think of the state of my own cupboard, and it is pretty damn bad.
But I get to eat lunch with everyone.
Plus, I managed to buy myself a loaf of wheat bread and a jar of peanut butter today.
It feels almost indulgent, even though it’s about as basic as it gets.
And if I snag one apple from the bag I bought for the lunchroom, I’m sure that’s fine.
I can always tell Kelly when we talk tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll drop a dollar into petty cash to balance it out.
The thought makes me smile faintly—like I’m relearning how to exist without asking permission for every small comfort.
My mind drifts back to Thatcher.
The look on his face when I explained what the produce was for.
Not annoyed.
Just surprised.
Like the idea that someone might care enough to think about the men he works beside every day hadn’t occurred to him in quite that way.
