I spear a piece of lettuce. “It's... good. Weird, but good. He's different when it's just us. Less guarded. He actually talks to me.”
“About?”
“Life. His family stuff. Nothing earth-shattering, just...” I trail off. “It feels real. Like we're building something.”
Zoe's expression softens. “Em. You like him.”
“I know.”
“Like, really like him. Not just 'he's hot and has a nice apartment' like him.”
“I know.”
She reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. “That's terrifying.”
“So terrifying.”
I come back to the penthouse at six-thirty. The wordbackcatches in my mind. Back implies I left somewhere I belong. I push the thought aside.
Kai is asleep on the couch, TV playing some documentary on mute. Laptop closed, which feels like progress. Papers are stacked neatly, next to my sketchbook and pastels.
I don't wake him. Change out of my work clothes, pull my hair into a ponytail, investigate the fridge. The housekeeper has left ingredients with a note.
Easy pasta recipe on the counter if you'd like, Ms. Sinclair.
I find the recipe. Neat handwriting, simple instructions for aglio e olio. Olive oil, garlic, chili flakes, parsley. I can manage that.
The kitchen fills with the smell of sizzling garlic. I'm stirring the pasta when I hear crutches on the hardwood.
“Something smells incredible.”
I turn. Kai is rumpled from sleep, hair sticking up on one side. He looks younger like this. Less polished.
“Your housekeeper left instructions. I'm just following them.”
He makes his way to the island, settles onto the stool that's becoming his spot. Watches me drain the pasta, toss it with the oil and garlic.
“You didn't have to do this,” he says.
“I know. I wanted to.”
Silence. The comfortable kind.
“The Ravenwood kids sent more cards today,” he says, fidgeting with a napkin. “They made a banner. 'Get well soon, Mr. Rhodes.' One of them drew a motorcycle.”
I smile, plating the pasta. “That's sweet.”
“It's the scholarship program. The one I mentioned. Most of these kids don't have anyone telling them they can be morethan their circumstances.” He pauses. “I remember that feeling. Thinking the path was already set. That I didn't get to choose. First world problem, I know.”
“And now?” I set a plate in front of him. “Do you still feel like you're not choosing?”
He reaches across the island, finds my hand.
“I'm finally choosing for myself.”
His thumb traces a slow circle on my wrist. My pulse jumps under his touch.
“ELK,” he continues. “The scholarship program. This apartment, this city.” He looks at me. “You.”
