“Here.” She turns fully toward me and hands me a plate of pasta.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to?—”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s the least I can do since I’m staying at your place.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
If you only knew why your brother is having you stay here.
I move to the bar and take a seat. She joins me, settling beside me as she starts eating.
“So—when I go to the hospital, what do I tell them when you walk in and sit in the waiting room for hours?” she asks.
“You don’t need to tell them anything,” I reply. “Just do your job. I’ll be around, making sure nothing crazy happens.”
“Great. Nothing crazy,” she says, mimicking my voice.
I snort.
“Did you just snort?”
“Sure,” I say with a chuckle.
We finish the rest of the meal in comfortable silence. When I notice we’re both done, I take her plate and load it into the dishwasher.
Breaking the quiet, I ask, “How early do you want to get to the hospital?”
“I usually get there around ten forty-five, sometimes earlier.”
I glance at the clock and realize it’s almost ten.
“It won’t take us long to get there, but we should get ready to leave in the next twenty minutes,” I say.
She nods. “I’m going to pack up everything I need.” She leaves the kitchen and heads back to her room.
A few minutes later, she comes back in wearing a jacket, a backpack slung over her shoulder. Her hair is pulled into a neat bun at the back of her head. I realize I’ve been staring when she clears her throat.
“Do you have a lunch box or something you can put this in?”
“Uh—do you need to borrow one?” I ask, trying to remember if I even have a lunch box.
“No. Half of this is for you.” She points to the containers on the counter. “You can’t expect me to eat all of that. I probably could if I was really hungry.”
I laugh. “Let me see if I can find something. I usually don’t make lunch. I just buy it.” I head to the hall closet by the entryway, dig around, and pull out an old backpack. “Will this work?” I ask, walking back to her.
She smiles.God, that smile.
“Yep. I put my stuff in my backpack, so it’s fine.”
I step up beside her, and she hands me the containers to pack into my bag. A few seconds pass in silence. Once we’re finished and everything is packed, I reach out, take her arm, and turn her to face me.
“I forgot to properly thank you for all of this.”
I lean down and kiss her, my hand sliding to the back of her neck. She lets out a soft moan. What I expect to be quick turns deeper, slower, until we finally pull apart.
“If that’s how you thank everyone who does something nice for you,” she says, clearly sarcastic, “I might get jealous.”
“You’d get jealous?” I tease.
