“Do you ever relax?” I ask, vaguely amused by how jumpy he seems, even if he’s doing his best to hide it.
Wyatt’s glance betrays a hint of irritation as he pushes the door open, gesturing for me to go first. “Do you ever stop talking?”
Something in me wants to be annoyed by the response, but I don’t have it in me. Instead, I huff and walk out. “Touché.”
He doesn’t say anything more as we leave the diner and continue on through the relative darkness, eventually stopping briefly at a corner store. He grabs a few things, like bottled water for each of us, some protein bars, and a couple of packs of gum. Only practical things, and nothing unsavory like cigarettes or scratch tickets. He doesn’t even glance at them.
Of course, I’m meant to keep my eyes and hair covered beneath the ever-watching eye of the cameras stationed around us. But I glance up as we stand at the counter, watching how the teenage cashier fumbles with the register, looking a bit flustered.
Still, Wyatt waits without complaint, even when the short line behind us grows more restless.
“Sorry,” the kid mumbles, fixing the register as best as he can, hardly looking up. “It’s my first week.”
“You’re doing fine,” he says with surprising understanding, almost like an older brother might say to soothe a distressed sibling.
The relief on the cashier’s face is immediate, and after taking a breath, he gathers himself enough to finish up the transaction.
It shouldn’t be significant at all…it’s just a standard interaction between strangers. Yet, I take it all in with something close to disbelief settling over me.
This man made an even older man tremble in his shoes without batting an eye. He married me without doing so muchas bringing it up to me, and he stashed me away in his house. He’s currently wanted by multiple groups. And yet, he thanks the cashier with more grace than he likely sees in an entire shift, then holds the door open again and steps aside for a woman carrying a small child.
Every small gesture hits like another drop landing in the bucket, and before I can stop myself from noticing, it’s almost overflowing already. I try to ignore it, but by the time we reach his condo again, my thoughts are a mess of contradictions.
But as we pull up to the parking garage, I remind myself of the truth.
Wyatt didn’t rescue me from Vito out of the goodness of his heart. He took me because it suits his needs, and whatever decency he shows in passing doesn’t erase the fact that I’m here against my will.
Even if those little acts of kindness are throwing me completely for a loop.
I’m biding my time. That’s all. None of this means anything.
He stays close, keeping an eye on me as we head up. I nearly feel the heat of his palm against my elbow, but it comes up short as he surely remembers the demands I laid out for him. He still hovers, but doesn’t touch. Good.
Heading inside, I force myself not to think about how weirdly domestic it feels to kick off the sneakers he had grabbed for me, moving through the place like I’m well acquainted with it.
Really, I should feel like a complete outsider here, not like a guest. But I’m not used to shrinking myself in a space. If anything, I do whatever I can to make it mine and create theatmosphere I want. And for some reason, Wyatt doesn’t try to stop me.
In the foyer, I shed the disguise with a huffed breath, then pile it in my arms.
“I’m going to—”
But I stop when I turn and realize Wyatt isn’t behind me.
Glancing at the door, then across the foyer, I still don’t see him. With my brows furrowed, I continue inside, finding him standing by the balcony with one of the windows propped open.
Curiously, I watch him as he moves something out there, resting it on the ledge. Then, I hear him…talking?
Stepping closer, I try to get a better look at what he’s doing, only to catch something grey moving just outside.
A cat sits on the far end of the railing. It’s small and scruffy, with one ear nicked like it has seen its fair share of fights. It watches him closely, obviously interested enough to stick around. Then, with a flick of its tail, the cat moves along the heavy metal frame until it’s nearly within touching range.
The little thing bows its head, and that’s when I realize it’s eating from a small ceramic dish. A plate full of food put out by someone I’d never expect to be a cat person.
With quiet and deliberate movements, Wyatt backs away, giving it space. Leaning against the windowsill, arms loosely folded, he watches in a surprisingly gentle way.
As if this is perfectly normal, the cat eats at the soft food piled on top of hard kibbles with enthusiastic bites.
Exhaling gently, Wyatt doesn’t move, and even from behind him, I swear his posture shifts into a satisfied one.
