"I'm fine," I say, focusing on opening the bread bag with one hand.
"Yeah, you look fine. That's why you're pale as a ghost and moving like you're eighty years old." Chaos leans against the doorframe, watching me struggle with the bread. "Want some help with that?"
"I got it."
"Stubborn asshole." But there's affection in his voice. "So, who's the sandwich for? Because I know you don't eat this late."
"Rachel."
His eyebrows rise. "The feisty one who told everyone to fuck off and locked herself in a room?"
Something hot flares in my chest at the way he says it. "She's not feisty. She's traumatized. There's a difference."
Chaos holds up his hands. "Hey, I didn't mean anything by it. Just saying she's got some fire in her, that's all."
"She's got survival instincts," I correct. "She spent a week being held captive by the Iron Eagles, forced to serve drinks to men who looked at her like she was meat. She has every right to tell people to fuck off."
There's a beat of surprised silence.
"Okay," he says slowly. "You're right. That was insensitive of me. I'm sorry."
I turn back to the sandwich, irritated with myself for snapping. Chaos didn't deserve that. He's a good kid, just younger and sometimes doesn't think before he speaks.
"Forget it," I mutter.
"No, seriously." Chaos pushes off the doorframe and comes closer. "I wasn't trying to be a dick. Those women have been through hell. I just... I noticed she seems to respond to you better than anyone else. Thought maybe that was a good thing."
It probably is a good thing. Doesn't mean I understand why.
"She doesn't trust easily," I say, layering turkey onto the bread. "Can't blame her for that."
"Can't blame her for a lot of things." Chaos grabs the cheese and hands it to me without being asked. "But I’ve heard that she let you stay in the room while Luna examined her. That's something."
"It's not—" I stop, not sure what I was going to say. "She just needed someone there who wasn't going to push her or expect her to be grateful."
"And that's you?"
"Apparently."
Chaos is quiet while I finish making the sandwich, but I can feel him thinking. The kid's too perceptive for his own good sometimes.
"Just be careful," he finally says. "I know you're trying to help, and that's good. But she's vulnerable right now, and you're... well, you're you. You don't exactly do the whole emotional connection thing."
"I'm not trying to connect with her," I say, even though I'm not sure that's true anymore. "I'm just making sure she eats and feels safe enough to rest."
"Right. Sure." Chaos doesn't sound convinced. "Well, if you need anything—backup, someone to talk to, whatever—you know where to find me."
"Thanks."
He leaves, and I'm alone again with a sandwich, a bag of chips, an apple, and a growing sense that I'm in over my head with this woman.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and head back upstairs, balancing everything so I don't drop it. My shoulder throbs with each step, reminding me that I'm injured and should probably be resting instead of playing delivery service.
But the image of Rachel's face when she asked for food, that brief flash of vulnerability before the walls slammed back up, keeps me moving.
I knock softly on her door with my boot.
"It's me. Got your food."
