Lasagna.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I get almost-murdered, and now my body’s first real reaction is hunger?
Not fear. Not grief. Not even basic survival instinct.
Just:Ooh, food.
It’s honestly rude.
My stomach growls loud enough to be legally classified as betrayal.
And there it is. That’s my rock bottom. Barely escaped death, eyes still sealed shut by trauma, and my body’s throwing itself at the scent of carbs like a cartoon hobo floating toward a pie on a windowsill.
The quiet breaks, and I hear it. Deep. Rough. Like gravel over silk. The kind of voice that makes your stomach drop before your brain catches up.
“You gonna sleep all day?”
My eyes crack open.
Light slams into my skull. I wince. Everything hurts. My neck, my shoulders, my ribs… like I got drop-kicked through a panic attack and then run over by a herd of cattle.
I blink slowly until the blur becomes shapes.
White walls. High ceilings. A couch beneath me so plush I sink like I’ve been claimed by it. The kind of couch people with trust funds nap on.
And straight ahead—
A kitchen. Thenicestkitchen I’ve ever seen. Black marble counters. Sleek appliances. A coffee machine that looks smarter than me. And him.
Standing in front of the stove, casually flipping something in a pan like this ishisSaturday and not my personal horror movie aftermath.
He’s barefoot. In sweatpants. Black tee stretching across broad shoulders like it was custom-made for his sins.
His hair is damp. Towel-dried, pushed back, careless.
I stare.
And stare.
And for a second, genuinely wonder if I actuallydiddie and end up in the hottest, weirdest corner of Purgatory.
Then I move.
Or try to. My neck protests. My lower back screams. Something pinches in my hip, and I let out a low, awkward whimper.
His head turns, just slightly.
Green eyes.
“You’re awake.”
His voice… Yeah, still illegal. Rich. Calm. Laced with that same dangerous nothingness from last night. Like if God outsourced judgment to a man who irons his shirts with a Glock on the counter.
I sit up too fast. Instantly regret it.
Everything tilts. The couch tries to eat me again.
