He watches me for a beat longer, then nods. “I took care of what I needed to. I brought some groceries and thought I’d make dinner. Figured you could use some real food.”
His eyes flick briefly to the bed.
My pulse jumps. I don’t look for fear I’ll give away my hiding place.
“Real food sounds great,” I say. “I can help.”
At this point, I want out of this room for reasons I refuse to examine too closely.
He steps closer as if he wants to inspect the room, intuition telling him there’s something up. The scent of leatherand cedar cuts through the stale underground air. “I’ve got it. I won’t put my guest to work.”
Guest? I’m not sure I’d characterize my status as a guest.
“Suit yourself,” I reply. “I don’t mind earning my keep.”
His gaze holds mine, unblinking. Measuring.
“We’ll see,” he says. “Come on. I’ll show you what I found.”
He turns toward the kitchen without waiting, expecting me to follow.
Good. Anywhere but here.
So I do as expected. I follow, keeping my eyes forward, though they drift despite my efforts.
The way he moves is unhurried, confident. A man who knows exactly how much space he occupies, and how easily it can be taken away.
We walk toward the kitchen. I tell myself, again, to keep my focus where it belongs. It lasts about three steps. My gaze drops without permission, tracking the solid line of his back, the ease in his stride. The realization irritates me more than the attraction itself.
He moves with the same quiet authority he carries everywhere else, as if the space has already adjusted to him. Cabinets open, a pan lands on the stove, and nothing is rushed or performative. Just practiced control.
He heads straight for the stove and reaches for a pan, at first with his injured hand instinctively, and then switches to leading with his left.
“You can sit,” he says. “Or, feel free to watch tv, read a book, swim. Whatever. Make yourself comfortable. It will take me about forty-five minutes.”
“I don’t mind helping,” I say. “As long as I’m not in the way.”
He considers that, then sets a cutting board on the counter.
“Rinse the celery and peppers,” he says. “I’ll take it from there.”
I do as instructed, running the vegetables under cold water, snapping grit from the stalks, turning them in my hands until they’re clean.
It’s simple, repetitive work. Exactly what I need. Something to occupy my hands so they don’t drift somewhere they shouldn’t.
When I pass the vegetables back, I leave space between us intentionally. I don’t want an excuse. I don’t want to test myself.
Our fingers don’t touch.
That should register as relief. Instead, there’s a brief, unwelcome dip low in my stomach, sharp enough that I notice it before I shut it down. The reaction irritates me more than the absence of contact.
He takes the vegetables without comment and reaches for a knife he has in the same bag he brought in the groceries.
The sound of it against the cutting board is steady and assured. Each cut is clean, deliberate. There’s no wasted motion.
Watching him work does something unsettling to my internal balance, and I shut the thought down before it finishes forming. My body responds to his steady competence before my brain reminds it of the context.
He came to my room in the dark, and I took the opening. Afterward, I told myself it was contained. Transactional. A tool meant to gain an edge.
