Wyatt’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is different. Lower. Almost reluctant.
“It was kind of hot.”
I go still. “What?”
“At first.” He’s not looking at me now, his gaze fixed somewhere around my collarbone. “Before you—before it went wrong. I didn’t hate being choked. Not when it was controlled. Not when it was intentional.” He swallows. “But not if you’re going to lose yourself in it. Not if I’m just a stand-in for whoever you’re really seeing.”
His confession sparks a complicated tangle of feelings in my chest. Heat and shame wound together so tight I can’t tell them apart.
“Maybe we work up to that,” I say carefully. “When I’ve got my head on straight.”
His eyes come back to mine, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Deal,” he says.
The kitchen fills with the smell of browning chicken and sautéed peppers while Wyatt and I work side by side.
Nothing fancy. The kitchen’s stocked with basics, and neither of us has the bandwidth for anything complicated. Wyatt finishes the vegetables while I handle the stove, and we move around each other easier now. Closer to okay than we were two hours ago.
It reminds me of last week in Nina’s kitchen, before everything went sideways. The way Wyatt and I fell into a rhythm without discussing it. Him on prep, me on heat, both of us orbiting the same unspoken goal: feed her something real.
Left to her own devices, Nina would survive on Thai takeout and protein bars. Even back when we were kids and she’d come over after school, I’d make grilled cheese for her and Callie while they sprawled across the living room with their homework. She’d look at me like I’d performed some kind of miracle. You made this? From ingredients?
Wyatt passes me the cutting board without being asked, vegetables sliced thin the way I need them for the pan. He’s watching the heat under my skillet, ready to adjust it if I get distracted. We’ve never cooked together before last week, but somehow we already knew how to share a kitchen. How to share her.
Nina’s changed into an oversized sweater that swallows her frame and leggings that cling to curves I’m trying not to think about right now. Her hair’s still damp from the shower, curling at the ends. The apple scent of her body wash keeps wafting across the kitchen, making me want to vault across it to bury myself in her again.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Wyatt glances over at my face while I flip the chicken. “Please tell me the other guy looks worse.”
“Other guys,” I correct. “Plural. And yeah, they’re not pretty right now either.” I find myself smiling, which pulls at the bruise. “Lucia said I looked like I went ten rounds with a cement mixer. She wasn’t that far off.”
“What does that mean?”
“The main guy I fought. Serbian. Part of whatever crew is running ops for the people who want Vicente and Arturo dead.” I shrug. “His name was Betonic. It basically means ‘son of concrete.’ Everyone called him Mješalica.”
Nina looks up from her magazine. “Which means?”
“The Mixer.” I gesture at my face. “So technically, I literally went ten rounds with a cement mixer.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Wyatt makes a sound that’s almost a laugh—surprised, reluctant, like it escaped before he could catch it.
“That’s terrible,” Nina says, but she’s smiling.
“The joke or the fight?”
“Both.”
I let myself smile back. It hurts, but I don’t care.
We eat at the kitchen island, the three of us close enough to touch. The food is simple but good, and for a few minutes we’re just people having dinner together. Not operatives. Not assets. Not whatever mess of trauma and history we’ve become.
Just this.
Wyatt’s phone buzzes. He checks it, and his shoulders drop a fraction—relief.
“What?” I ask.
