"I know."
He studies me, eyes moving over my face, searching for answers I don't want to give. My hands won't stop trembling. My breath keeps catching. I can't stop swaying between wanting to kiss him and wanting to collapse into him.
He cautiously reaches out and places two fingers under my chin, lifting my face until I have to meet his eyes. He quietly states, "You're shaking."
"You're here," I whisper back.
"This isn't what you think it is."
"It is for me."
His throat works around the sigh he doesn't let out. Something deep flickers in his gaze, too raw not to make me even more resolved in my belief.
He's meant to be mine.
He drops his hand. "You need food."
I blink. "Food?"
"Yes." His tone hardens into something that brooks no argument. "You're not going to bed until you eat something."
The idea of him staying long enough to feed me sends a dizzy, breathless thrill spiraling through my body. "You're not leaving?" I ask, just to hear him say it.
"Not yet."
My entire chest lights up. I step aside, giving him space to follow me toward the kitchen, already imagining the next hour in vivid, intoxicating detail.
He doesn't trust me to take care of myself.
So he's going to do it for me.
I've never felt more alive. But then, panic sets in. I become hyperaware of every surface, little shadow, and minute object he could possibly look at.
The kitchen counters look clean, but are they clean enough?
Did I leave anything out?
Did I scrub the stove twice or three times last night?
Did I imagine bleaching the bathroom at four in the morning, or did I actually do it?
My stomach tightens. If he thinks I live like a disaster, he'll think I'm one, too.
I can't have that.
He pauses just inside the doorway of my tiny kitchen, scanning quietly. His eyes move over the counters, the fridge, the sink.
I follow his gaze, horrified by each thing that might not be perfect.
Did I leave the sponge too wet?
Is the trash too empty?
Does the fridge smell weird?
Oh god, did I forget to take out the recycling?
"I know it's small," I blurt out, as though that's the problem. "I'm organized, I just...work a lot...and?—"
