“Drink,” he says.
I do, slow at first. Then, all at once. I didn’t even know I was thirsty. My hands are still shaking when I set the empty glass down.
He notices. I can tell by the way the corners of his mouth tilt down. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns back to the stove, giving me space and putting me at ease.
I watch him move, measured and certain. Like he knows exactly what to do with his hands, his body, the space around him. It steadies something in me.
“You look like you cook a lot,” I say.
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer. But you still like giving it,” I say, trying to sound relaxed and pulled together.
He glances over his shoulder. “It’s the one you’re getting.” His lips move, slightly, like he’s holding back a lopsided grin. Those too-kissable lips could be the death of me.
The pan hisses as he drops butter into it. Then I hear the crackle of shells, and eggs hit the pan.
A simple meal, but one I only now realize I need, stomach rumbling fiercely. I pat it with a hand, relieved he’s in the kitchen and unable to hear all the commotion.
Savory smells waft from the kitchen as he adds garlic, onions, some vegetables to a second pan, searing them while he keeps an eye on the first, spatula at the ready. He flips the eggs after a couple of minutes, filling half the omelet with seared veggies. Then, he adds a thin layer of shredded cheddar cheese, and folds it closed.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve made that,” I say. A stupid line. But there’s too much unsaid between us. So much I still don’t know.
“Yep.” Silence stretches. Then, he adds, “I do a lot of cooking at the station, for me and the other guys. Little things, like good food, mean a lot to me.”
Something in my chest tightens. “This means a lot to me,” I say, fixing my gaze on him. “In case I haven’t said that yet.” I press my palms together, trying to keep the shake out of my hands.
“You haven’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “And that’s okay. It’s been a helluva twenty-four hours.”
My head spins. I eye the clock, shaking my head. This time, the headache pulsing through my temples doesn’t kick back as much. “True. This time last night, I hadn’t even bid on you yet.”
“That’s right,” he says, flashing straight white teeth my way. “And I didn’t know I wanted you to yet, either.”
I let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
I believe that.
I watch him for a second longer. “I’m not Scarlett.”
He stills, just for a second. Then the spatula moves again. “That’s what you said earlier.”
“My legal name is Marielle,” I continue. “Marielle Ocasta.” Saying it out loud feels strange. It’s been so long, and it’s cost me so much more than I ever could’ve guessed.
“Marielle,” he says gruffly. “It’s a nice name, too.”
I take a deep breath then let the words pour out before I can think better of it. Because he deserves to know what he’s getting into. “I used to work with kids,” I say. “Foster placements. Home visits. Making sure they were safe.”
The pan sizzles as he adds another dab of butter. One omelet already sits on a plate, steaming. He doesn’t interrupt or rush me, so I don’t stop.
“There was a girl,” I say. “Six years old. Maybe seven. I was supposed to check in on her grandmother.” My fingers tighten. “But the grandmother wasn’t there. He was.”
I keep names out of it because it’s part of the job. Part of not violating privacy laws. And I don’t know if I could sayhisname anyway. The name of the man who’s had me running for far too long.
“He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near that house,” I add. “Court order. Supervised visits only.” My voice stays steady, which surprises me. “He was high,” I say. “Angry. He thought I was there to take her… the little girl. ”
I swallow too loudly. “After seeing him… in his current state… he wasn’t wrong.”
