His mouth twitches, just the edge, as if he’s fighting a smirk. “I’m capable of basic human function, yes.”
“I just assumed you’d have people for that.”
“I do.” He slides the pan off the heat. “But I didn’t want people here this morning.”
He plates the food with neat, precise movements. No hesitation. No chaos. Of course, even his domesticity is efficient.
He nods toward the stool at the kitchen island. I sit. Mostly because my legs feel unreliable.
He sets the plate in front of me and pours coffee into a mug. It’s black, but he slides a small jug of milk toward me without my asking, then adds a sugar dish too.
He remembers. I blink hard. For months, I’ve grabbed his coffee; only once has he made me one. But he remembers I take milk and sugar. I give my head a shake, almost laughing to myself. Ninety percent of the population takes milk and sugar. It was a lucky guess, and here I am romanticising the bad guy.
He sits opposite with his own plate.
We eat in silence for a few bites. It is the most normal moment I’ve had in days. Which somehow makes itworse.
He breaks it first. “You had a panic attack.”
My fork pauses. “Yeah.”
“You’ve had them before.”
It’s not a question. “Yeah.” I push a piece of egg around the plate. “Not for a while.”
He nods once. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure.”
We fall silent again, but this time it feels softer. I take the time to really look at him. He appears tired. Not physically, but deep down, bone tired.
“You didn’t have to come last night,” I say quietly.
He meets my eyes. “Yes, I did.” He looks down for a second. “Your friend, Courtney,” he says, picking up a piece of toast, “threatened to stab me in the eye with her car keys when she realised I’d picked you up. She was blowing up your phone, so I wanted to put her mind at rest.”
A strangled noise leaves me. “That sounds about right.”
“She also told me you ‘deserve a man with emotional intelligence, not a walking red flag.’”
I choke on coffee. “She didn’t.”
“Oh, she did.”
I wipe my mouth, a small laugh slipping out, the first in what feels like forever. It feels strange. Foreign. But good.
“She said I’m ‘highly punchable,’” he adds.
“Well…” I shrug. “She’s not wrong.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Careful.” He exhales. “She was pretty vocal, actually. Listed about twelve ways I should die. She really doesn’t like me.”
I set my fork down. “Yeah, well I haven’t exactly given her many glowing stories.”
His gaze meets mine. Something flickers there. “But you’ve talked about me.”
“She’s my best friend,” I say simply.
He gives a stiff nod. “Good. I’m glad you have someone to talk to.”
“Warren,” I murmur.
