“You’re kind of intense, you know that?” she said.
A smile almost touched his mouth. “I’ve been told.”
“Is that why you don’t have a girlfriend? Because you’re too intense?”
The question came out before she could stop it. Too personal. Too probing.
But Carson didn’t seem offended. He just flipped the first sandwich in the pan and said, “Part of it. Mostly it’s because I work too much and I’m not great at letting people in.”
“Why not?”
“Because people leave. People disappear. People die.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “My sister vanished. My dad got killed. CaptainHolloway is the closest thing to family I have, and he’s my boss. Easier to keep things professional. To not get attached.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It is.” He plated the first sandwich and started on the second. “But it’s safer. Can’t lose people if you don’t let them close.”
Nora understood that logic. Had lived by it herself for years. Don’t trust. Don’t hope. Don’t let anyone matter.
But standing in Carson’s kitchen, watching him make her lunch, feeling the way her pulse jumped every time he looked at her… She was starting to think maybe lonely wasn’t the same as safe.
Maybe safe was just another word for empty.
“What about you?” Carson asked, pulling her from her thoughts. “Your friend Lila keeps calling. You keep not answering.”
“She wouldn’t understand. She’d just tell me I’m being paranoid again.” Nora accepted the plate he handed her. “It’s easier to deal with this alone.”
“You’re not alone.” Carson met her eyes. “You have me.”
The words shouldn’t have affected her so much. But they did. Because no one had said that to her in years. No one had offered to be there, to stay, to not leave.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
They ate at the small kitchen table, shoulders almost touching in the cramped space. Conversation drifted to safer topics—favoritemovies, worst first dates, the best coffee in Blackridge.
Normal things. Human things. The kind of conversation that made Nora forget, for a few minutes, that she was hiding from a stalker.
That made her remember Carson wasn’t just a detective. He was a person. A man. Someone with a quick, dry sense of humor and opinions about whetherDie Hardwas a Christmas movie and a slight obsession with his ancient coffeemaker.
Someone she was starting to care about in ways that had nothing to do with him protecting her.
“I should get back to work,” Carson said finally, standing to clear their plates.
Nora stood too, grabbing her plate before he could. “I’ll do dishes. You’ve done enough.”
“Nora—”
“Let me help. Please. I need to feel useful.”
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”
They worked side by side at the sink—Nora washing, Carson drying. The domestic simplicity of it felt surreal. Like they were a couple doing normal couple things.
Except they weren’t a couple. She was a victim. He was a detective. This was temporary. Circumstantial.
Even if it felt like something more.
Carson’s phone buzzed. He dried his hands and checked it, his expression darkening.
