My hand stilled on the bathroom counter. “Do what?”
“Hide.” His voice was closer now, just on the other side of the door. “You have us now.”
My chest did something complicated. A squeeze, a flutter. The stupid, traitorous hope that maybe he meant it.
“The bookshop girl can’t just disappear from this town,” I said. “People saw me. They know what I look like. If I suddenly show up looking completely different, there’ll be questions.”
Silence.
I waited for him to argue. To push or tell me I was being ridiculous. But he didn’t.
“Take your time,” he finally said, and I heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
When I came downstairs, Solomon was in the kitchen with his coffee. He glanced up, and an emotion flashed across his face.
“You did your hair,” he said. His eyes tracked the dark strands, and his jaw tightened.
“And here I thought you were the observant one.”
“I noticed your natural color.” His pale eyes held mine. “It suited you.”
Heat crept up my neck. I didn’t know what to do with his compliments and that look. Intense and focused, with all of the stillness directed right at my face.
I cleared my throat and changed the topic. “I want to make lunch today. For you guys. At the firehouse.”
Solomon set down his coffee. “We have food here.”
“I know. I want to cook for you. All of you.” I crossed my arms. “You’ve been feeding me and housing me and buying me clothes. I haven’t contributed anything. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe us anything.”
“I owe you everything.” The words came out harder than I intended. “And I don’t... I’m not good at owing people. So let me do this. Please.”
He studied me for a long moment. I fought the urge to fidget under his attention, hyper-aware of my own heartbeat and the way my skin prickled when he looked at me for too long.
“Okay,” he finally said.
“Okay?”
“You can cook. I’ll take you to the firehouse.” He paused. “And don’t worry about what you think you owe us. You can take your time paying us back. No rush, no debt.”
No debt. As if the clothes weren’t already a debt. Or everything else they’d bought me without blinking, adding up in my head as a receipt I couldn’t afford.
Yesterday, Solomon suddenly steered the cart through the women’s section. “You need things that fit,” he’d said dismissively.
I’d grabbed practical things. Nothing that would draw attention. But there’d been a dress. Soft blue, simple cut, nothing fancy. I’d stopped in front of it, my fingers brushing the fabric.
“You should get it,” Solomon had said.
I pulled my hand back and shook my head. Then grabbed another black sweater instead.
“I’ll pay you back,” I said now. “Every cent. Once I figure out what I’m doing with my life.”
Solomon just nodded and finished his coffee.
The pasta bake came together quickly. While it baked, Solomon moved around the kitchen, and I found myself tracking him unconsciously.
