"Blue, you don't need to explain your apartment to me," he cuts in gently.
But I do. I absolutely do. Because if he sees one thing out of place, he might think I'm messy, or irresponsible, or incapable of taking care of myself. And if he thinks that, he might not stay.
I grab a dish towel off the counter and start wiping a perfectly clean surface.
Red steps closer and takes the towel from my hand. He softly states, "Your apartment is impeccable. There's nothing to clean right now."
"I just want everything to look nice. For you."
"It does. It looks perfect."
Perfect.
I nod, beaming. "Okay."
"Sit down," he orders, pulling out a barstool. His warm, steady voice is so achingly sincere that it makes my breath catch. He isn't judging or disgusted. He's just here, in my apartment with me.
The realization hits so hard, my knees buckle but my ass lands on the padded seat.
Red squeezes my hand. "Try to relax."
"I am," I claim, but inside, I'm nothing close to relaxed.
He opens the fridge. The empty shelves and lone yogurt stare back at him. His mouth tightens in frustration.
He asks, "When did you last buy groceries?"
I lift a shoulder. "I'm not hungry most of the time."
He closes the fridge and turns to me fully. "You need to eat something. Tonight. Now."
"I told you. I'm not hungry."
"That isn't an option anymore." The firmness in his voice sends a hot spark through my chest. He's staying and taking control. He's not letting me push him away or drift into some sleepless void. Dr. Red Mercer is in my kitchen, deciding what I eat, how long I stay awake, and what happens next.
Tonight's the night he can kiss me.
The thought erupts so fast, I see stars. I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.
He sets two half-full boxes of cereal in front of me. He gives me a half-exasperated, half-deeply concerned look before setting both on the counter. "Your yogurt is expired. These are the only other things in your house."
"Yeah."
"Blue, you need more food in your house than this."
"I'm fine, Dr. Mercer. I promise I won't waste away," I tease.
He shakes his head and opens my cabinet. His forearms flex when he reaches for a bowl. He takes it out and pours cereal into it. Then he slides it in front of me, proclaiming, "It's time to eat."
I don't want cereal. I want him. But I lift the spoon anyway because he's here, and I'll do anything to keep him here longer.
It tastes like cardboard. The second bite's like nothing. But the third tastes like stability, because he doesn't look away while I swallow it.
I force down half the bowl of dry cereal before setting the spoon aside. "Is that enough?"
He studies me for a long, heavy moment. "For now."
The relief that floods me is ridiculous. "Good. Can we sit on the couch?"
