She sees me.
Shit. I shouldn’t be watching her. “Morning,” I say, my voice still rough from sleep.
She pushes herself up on one elbow, tugging the t-shirt down instinctively. “Sorry. I borrowed this. I had nothing to sleep in.”
“You’re fine.” More than fine. But I keep that to myself.
I straighten and stretch again, cracking my back with a groan.
“What time is it?”
“About 5.30.” I roll my neck, trying to straighten out all the kinks. “Remind me to replace that couch with something that doesn’t try to murder me in my sleep.”
“It’s too early. Come and get in bed.” She folds the duvet back and slips to one side. “I knew that couch was too small for you.”
I stare at the bed, at the sliver of thigh, at her pouty lips. Every muscle in my body wills me to stride over and slip into bed beside her, wrap her up in my arms and claim her. But she’s not mine to claim. Oak wants me to take care of her, not make her my old lady. Or worse, a patch bunny.
After a beat, she covers her legs with the duvet, her shoulders curving inwards as if her chest’s deflating.
“I’m up now. Got work to do.” It’s a lie, but I know if I get in bed with her, I’ll never make it out. I may as well sign my own death certificate. “Besides, I gotta go out and get food. We can’t live on leftover pasta. Did you see the sorry excuse for my fridge?”
Her lips twitch like she wants to laugh, but isn’t sure if she’s allowed.
“You go back to sleep.”
“No, I’m awake now.” She climbs out of bed, tugging my t-shirt over her full behind.
I turn away, wanting to give her some privacy. “I’ll put the kettle on.” My bunk’s not much. A double bed. Mismatchedfurniture. One window and a fridge that hums louder than it should. But it’s mine. And quiet. Which is all I’ve ever needed.
She pads into the kitchenette and sits at the two-seater table wearing yesterday’s dirty clothes.
“Sleep okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Better than I have in a long time.”
That lands like a gut punch. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s had a bed without fear in it.
I grab two mugs and fill with instant coffee while I wait for the kettle to boil. One for her. One for me. She accepts it without hesitation.
We sit in silence for a few sips.
Then I ask the question I’ve been holding back since she showed up on my doorstep.
“Who is he?”
Her fingers tighten around the mug. “If you mean who did this.” She points to her bruised cheekbone. “It’s Mum’s handiwork. She doesn’t like it when her boyfriend, Nigel, is nice to me.”
My jaw ticks. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s real nice.”
She hesitates. “He gives me the creeps, but he’s never laid a hand on me. But Mum doesn’t like the way he looks at me. Says I flirt with him.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head as if a shiver just wracked her bones. “Whatever.”
I set the mug down before it breaks in my fist. My blood’s boiling, and it’s all I can do not to storm out the door. No wonder her brother sent the message.
“Your mum’s still with him?”
She nods. “They’re always out drinking. When they come home, they either fight or…”
I don’t push. I’ve heard enough. Something gnaws at the back of my brain. Nigel. Dealer. That area… I file it away. Fornow, he’s just some lowlife asshole with too much beer and not enough control. But something tells me he’s far worse.
