“I don’t know what you like, so I got a variety.” Heplates the food and hands me a fork, then takes chopsticks for himself.
We eat in awkward silence. He watches me over his meal, those sharp eyes missing nothing. I try not to shovel food in my mouth, but I’m so hungry and it’s so good.
“So you like Chinese,” he says after a while.
“I’ve never had it before.”
His fork stops halfway to his mouth. I’ve said something wrong. Normal people eat Chinese food. Normal people don’t live on sparse scraps and day-old diner food.
I’m grateful when he changes the subject without commenting. “What did you do today?”
“Cleaned. Watched TV.”
“You should rest. You don’t have to work here.”
I frown at my plate. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever you want.”
“I don’t understand what you want from me.” The honesty slips out before I can stop it.
Cillian sets down his fork and looks at me directly. “I’m still figuring that out. But I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”
“Everyone’s afraid of you.” I don’t know why I keep saying these things out loud.
“Yes. But I don’t wantyouto be.”
I don’t have an answer to that. I reach for my water and that’s when I see it—a cut on his hand. Small, but fresh. Dried blood crusts the edges.
“You’re bleeding.” I reach for his hand before I contemplate what I’m doing. Before I remember who he is.Whathe is.
My fingers hover above his skin.
But he doesn’t pull away. He wears an amused expression as he turns his palm up. An offering.
I take his hand.
It’s warm, calloused in places, and large enough that mine looks tiny in comparison. The hand of a man who’s done hard things.
“Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Bathroom cabinet.”
Right. I remember now, I saw it earlier while I was cleaning. When I come back with it, he’s still sitting there wearing an amused expression, watching me like I’m a sideshow. It embarrasses me, but not enough for me to stop. After all, it’s the least I could do given what he’s already done for me. I owe him, don’t I?
I clean the cut with an alcohol wipe. He doesn’t flinch even though it must sting. The cut isn’t deep, but it’s jagged.
These hands have done terrible things. Burned warehouses with people inside, if the newspaper is right. Broken bones. Maybe killed.
And yet, I don’t feel afraid. Not right now. Not of him.
I adhere a Band-Aid to the clean wound, concentrating on getting it smooth and secure. When I look up to check my work, I realize how close I’ve leaned.
Our faces are inches apart.
His eyes hold mine. The scent of him surrounds me. It’s good. So good. I could stand here and sniff him all night like a complete weirdo.
And I do stand there for way too long. I know I should step back, put distance between us.
