“Don’t,” I murmur, leaning my forehead to hers. “Not yet.”
She hesitates. Then relaxes. “Okay.”
I don’t deserve how easily she trusts me. Not when I haven’t fully handled what I need to handle.
Talia.
The thought slams into my chest, leaving a sour taste behind. I tighten my hold on Rose without thinking, like I can shield her from the parts of my life that could hurt her. The parts I’m disgusted by.
She looks up, brows pinching slightly. “You okay?”
I nod. Lie. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
I almost say you. But that’s too honest. Instead, I say, “Training. We’ve got morning ice tomorrow.” It’s weak and cowardly.
She sees through it but she lets it go. She opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something else, but her stomach chooses that moment to growl violently. We both freeze. Then laughter bursts out of me, loud and unfiltered, and she buries her burning face in my hoodie.
“Shut up,” she groans.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re laughing.”
“It’s a charming sound,” I tease, fingers slipping into her hair. “Like a tiny bear mating call.”
That earns me a swat to the chest, and it was totally worth it. I sit up, shifting her so she stays against me. “Breakfast?”
She hesitates as though she’s not sure she’s allowed to say yes. Like she’s expecting me to suddenly change my mind and shove her out the door. As if this is temporary.
Fuck no. “Stay,” I say firmly. “Let me feed you.”
Her breath catches. “Okay.”
I press a quick kiss to her lips before I chicken out, then stand, stretching, trying to gather myself. She watches me move around the kitchen, and I’m uncomfortably aware of every muscle, every step, every stupid action I’m doing as though I’m auditioning to be a functioning adult.
I pull eggs and bread out of the fridge.
She sits on a stool, head tilted. “Do you know how to cook?”
“I know how to scramble eggs.”
“And?”
I gesture to the eggs with over-the-top bravado. “What more could you ask for?”
She laughs that soft, warm one that hits somewhere behind my ribs.
I crack the eggs into a bowl, and she watches me like I’m fascinating. Me. Callum fucking Fraser. Just scrambling eggs. Her smile is small and secret and somehow the most intimate thing anyone has ever given me. “Do you always stare this much?” I ask.
“Only when I like what I’m looking at.”
The spatula nearly slips from my hand. I turn, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says simply, kicking her heel against the cabinet, cheeks flushed.
I want to cross the space between us. I want to pull her against me. I want?—
