Her pride said:Don't ask for more than he's offering.
Her body whispered:You still want him.
Her heart—God help her—just ached.
"You don't have to," she said quietly.
"I know."
The creak-creak of the wrench echoed through the kitchen. He was tightening something, forearms flexing with every turn.
Grace watched the slope of his shoulders, the concentration on his face. This wasn't seduction. This wasn't a prelude to sex.
This was just... him. Fixing her sink. Like it mattered.
Likeshemattered.
"I'm used to it," she said quietly. "I don't even notice it anymore."
A pause. Then, without looking up: "You shouldn't have to get used to things being broken."
The words hit her square in the chest.
He wasn't just talking about the sink.
Her breath caught.
Luke finished the repair, tested the faucet, wiped his hands on the old towel she kept under the sink. Stood slowly.
He looked at her—and there it was again.
Not heat. Not hunger.
Something gentler. Something terrifying.
Care.
"Are you hungry?"he asked.
The question caught her off guard. "I'm fine," she said automatically.
His brow furrowed slightly. He studied her for a moment, like he was deciding how hard to push. "When did you last eat?"
Grace opened her mouth to answer, then realized she couldn't remember. Breakfast? Maybe. She'd been running on coffee and adrenaline since the man showed up at school.
"Let me make you dinner, Grace."
It wasn't really a question.
Grace hesitated. Every instinct told her to say no, to keep the boundary firm, to not let him blur the lines any further.
"Okay," she said quietly.
He'd been in her kitchen before. Plenty of times. But always late, always hungry in a different way. Hands reaching, mouths urgent, clothes discarded on the way to the bedroom.
This was something else.
Grace leaned against the counter and watched as Luke moved through her space. He found a pot, filled it with water, set it on the stove to boil. Opened and closed cupboards until he found a jar of sauce, dried herbs, salt.
