“You probably want to be in bed, right?” she asks, her voice hesitant.
Yes. With you, I think, but what comes out is, “I’m a little tired, but honestly, I’m hungrier than I am sleepy.”
“Well, it’ll be ready any moment now,” she says, tapping the spoon against the pot before carefully placing it on a paper napkin, always mindful of avoiding any mess—so typical of Lauren. I watch her with quiet admiration, every movement deliberate and careful, as if the act of cooking was the only thing keeping her from slipping into the same emotional quicksand I’m stuck in. But still, the silence between us feels like it’s brimming with something unspoken, something we’re both too scared to name.
“I have questions,” I say, crossing my arms over the marble island, watching her carefully.
“Shoot,” she replies without hesitation, but there’s a certain guardedness in her voice.
“How did you know I was having a heart attack?”
“Pre-heart attack,” she corrects, not missing a beat. “I recognized the symptoms.”
“Are you an expert or something?” I ask with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood.
“Almost,” she says, stopping her movements and meeting my gaze. “My mom has a condition that damages her heart. I’ve learned to recognize a heart attack when it happens.”
Her mom is sick? That’s news to me. Then again, why would she mention it? I never asked her personal questions—probably too busy being my usual self. “That’s why you carry aspirin with you,” I say, the pieces slowly clicking into place.
She nods. “I know it’s thousands of miles away, but it’s a habit I can’t shake.”
“What illness does she have?” I ask, this time genuinely curious. I want to know.
Lauren leans against the island, her posture relaxed as she rests her torso on the marble, almost lying down. It’s the most at ease I’ve seen her in this whole weirdly intimate evening. “She has a heart anomaly that makes it work twice as hard.”
“Is there a cure?”
“No,” she says softly, looking down and fidgeting with her fingernail. “But she takes medication that helps.”
I notice the slight change in her demeanor, the way her shoulders tense just a bit. “What’s wrong?” I ask, feeling something shift in the conversation.
“It’s extremely expensive medication,” she says, exhaling deeply as if letting the words out makes the weight of it easier to bear. “My parents’ retirement doesn’t cover everything, so my sister and I help out as much as we can.”
“And that’s why you live in that place,” I say, drawing the conclusion aloud. It makes perfect sense now. Lauren spends most of her salary on her mom’s health because, of course she does. That’s just ...her.How did I not figure this out earlier? She gives me a small, tight smile, confirming what I already know. The burden she carries isn’t just financial—it’s emotional, too. And for the first time, I see Lauren in a new light, not just as my assistant but as someone holding everything together, at her own expense.
“Yep,” she says, wiping away nonexistent crumbs from the counter, more out of habit than anything else. The reality hits me. Prices, healthcare—it’s all so inflated that families like hers are forced to make impossible choices.
Lauren moves back to the pot, ladling stew into my blue plates. Plates I brought back from Greece, a detail I realize she probably hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care about. But it doesn’t matter. She places a plate in front of me and then sits beside me at the island.
“Bon appétit!” she says with a warm smile.
“I think the last time I had stew was at my grandfather’s country house when I was ten,” I say, reminiscing.
“Does this not meet Silas Walker’s standards?” she teases with a grin that makes her impossibly more adorable.
Everything made by you meets my standards, I think, but instead, I say, “This is good for now,” with a wink, watching as her cheeks flush with a smile that, for a second, makes me forget everything else. I want to make her smile again. Turns out, seeing Lauren smile is far more satisfying than making her cry. We both take our first bite at the same time, and I watch her reaction closely. She seems to enjoy it, and while I want to have the same reaction, I keep it cool, savoring it in silence.
“Do you always cook?” I ask, taking a second bite.
“Yeah, except on Fridays. Fridays are reserved for junk food,” she says with a small grin.
“Me too,” I reply, moving food around on my plate casually. “But that’s my best-kept secret, so unfortunately, you’ll have to die now.” I say it with a deadpan expression, and she looks at me seriously for a second before bursting into laughter—loud, unrestrained, and so contagious that I can’t help but join in.
“What’s junk food for Silas Walker? Sushi?” she teases, still laughing.
“What? No, not that fancy,” I say, smirking. The truth is, my guilty pleasure on Fridays usually involves a quick stop at McDonald’s. There’s something strangely comforting about biting into a burger that’ll probably last forever in my stomach.
When we finish eating, she clears her plate and takes it to the sink, washing her hands.
