She's playing me.
I know she's playing me, and I don't fucking care.
It’s been two days since our fight, since she slapped me and walked away, and something shifted. Something changed. She's softer now. Not much—not enough that anyone else would notice—but I notice everything about her.
I see the way she looks at me a little longer, the way she lingers in rooms and in doorways instead of hiding away in the guest bedroom whenever I’m home. She eats everything I put in front of her and thanks me for it. She actually offered me coffee this morning as she was making her cup of decaf. She’s acting like we’re playing house, as if I wouldn’t notice the change and be suspicious of it.
But Christ, I want to believe it anyway.
I’m making breakfast—toast and eggs for me, poached eggs and a biscuit for her—and she’s sitting at the bar counter watching me, wearing a long button-down shirt over a pair of leggings. Her hair is piled up on top of her head, leaving the long line of her neck and the spread of her collarbones bare, and the shirt is oversized enough that I could pretend that it’s mine. Iknow exactly what she’s doing. She looks warm and soft and like she belongs to me, and it’s fucking working, because how much I want her feels like a physical ache in my chest.
I can feel her eyes on me. Studying me. Trying to figure out what angle to take, what move to make next. I should call her on it. Should tell her I know exactly what she's doing.
But I don't. Because even if it's manipulation, even if it's all an act—I'll take it. I'll take whatever she's willing to give me, even if it's fake.
It's fucked up. I know it's fucked up.
I don't care.
"Kazimir?"
I look up. She's leaning forward slightly, her elbows on the counter, and the neckline of the shirt dips just enough that I can see the hollow of her throat and the space between the tops of her breasts. My cock throbs, stiffening, and grease pops onto my wrist. “Shit!” I yelp, stepping back, and glance at her as I turn the faucet on cold to run my wrist under it. “Yeah?”
Her lips twitch. “Nothing. Are you okay?”
As if she really cares. I push the thought away and nod. “Yeah. Just a little burn. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I should have thanked you,” she says softly, the words coming out of nowhere as I let the water spill over my wrist. It’s ice cold, but it does nothing to soothe the heat pounding through my veins. “I’ve been cruel, and you’ve just been trying to take care of me. You could have just... left me alone."
She’s laying it on a little too thick, and I know she’s testing me, seeing if I’ll call her out on it. Butfuck, hearing the words feels so good, even if they’re a lie. I never knew how beautiful lies could sound until they were coming from her lips.
"No." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "I couldn't."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, and I wonder what she sees. If she can see how completely she's destroyed me. How I'd burn the whole fucking world down if it meant keeping her safe.
I turn back to the stove before I do something stupid. Before I cross the kitchen and kiss her the way I've been dying to kiss her since I nearly did the last time, and she slapped me.
I need to stay in control. But she's making it impossible.
The eggs are done. I plate them, add toast and a biscuit to our plates, and pour her a glass of orange juice, then take them to the small table next to the kitchen. She follows, and I sit down across from her. Take a piece of toast. Watch as she takes a bite of eggs, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation. "Good?" I ask.
"Really good." She takes another bite. “You’re a surprisingly good cook.”
I chuckle. “Well, as a confirmed bachelor, it’s an important skill to have if I don’t want to blow all my money on takeout.”
She smirks. “What do you blow your money on? Hookers and drugs?”
I snort at that. “Hardly. I’m a saver. I didn’t grow up rich, and I’d rather never have to worry about money again. I’d rather live well within my means and not want for anything.”
Her gaze searches mine. “So there’s nothing you want for?”
It’s a gambit, and it takes everything in me not to pick it up. “Not that I can buy,” I say finally, and fork up another bite of eggs.
We eat in silence, and the intimacy of it is almost unbearable. This is what I wanted. This quiet, easy thing between us. This sense of normalcy.
Even if it's built on lies. Even if she's only doing it to lower my guard. I don't care. I just don't fucking care. I want more of it.
She's reaching for her juice when there's a knock at the door. We both freeze.
