Jagger Harrison thinks he's a monster. A weapon designed for a purpose, with no more agency than a gun or a knife. He thinks whatever made him this way, stripped out everything human and left only the pain he can inflict.
But monsters don't annotate literature and they don't stop interrogations when their subjects need a break. Monsters don't kiss people like they're drowning and fighting for air at the same time.
He's wrong about himself.
And somehow, that makes me want him even more.
I'm so fucked.
Around seven, I make dinner. Not because I'm particularly domestic, but because I'm hungry and the man clearly isn't going to feed me while he's in full avoidance mode. His kitchen has ingredients for about a hundred meals I don't know how to make, so I settle for pasta. Boil water, add noodles, pour jar sauce over the result. Gordon Ramsay would weep, but it's edible.
I make enough for two because I'm either an optimist or a masochist. Probably both.
The smell must travel, because I hear his office door open when I'm draining the pasta. Footsteps in the hallway. A pause outside the kitchen.
I don't turn around. Just dump the sauce over the noodles and stir.
"There's food," I say. "If you're done with the dramatic sulking."
"I wasn't sulking."
"Right. You were strategically reassessing the situation. My mistake." I grab two plates from the cabinet, divide the pasta, and finally turn to face him. "You want parmesan on that, or are you one of those people who thinks cheese is too emotionally complicated?"
He's standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking at me like I'm a particularly difficult man-child. His shirt is different, and his hair is back to its usual controlled state. But his eyes are red-rimmed, and there's a tension in his jaw that tells me he's been grinding his teeth for hours.
"You made dinner," he says.
"I made pasta. Don't get excited, it's basically just hot carbs with tomatoes."
"Why?"
"Because I was hungry? And also because watching you starve yourself while you spiral into existential crisis seemed counterproductive." I shove his plate across the counter. "Eat. You look like a malnourished plant."
"I don't look like—"
"You really do. Very tragic. Like a tortured hero who just discovered he has feelings. It's almost cute, if you ignore the whole kidnapping situation."
He stares at the plate. At me. Back at the plate. Back at me. Then he sighs and rolls his eyes.
Then he sits down and picks up a fork.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The pasta is mediocre at best, but he cleans his plate like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. I wonder when he last ate. I wonder if he remembers to do basic human maintenance when he's not performing for someone else.
"About this morning," he starts.
"We don't have to talk about it."
"I think we do."
"No, really. We don't." I set down my fork. "Look, Harrison. I'm not under any illusions about what this is. You're keeping me here because I might have information you need. Eventually you'll either get that information or decide I'm useless, and then I'll either be killed or processed again. That's the reality."
His jaw tightens. "That's not—"
"Let me finish." I hold up a hand. "What happened this morning doesn't change any of that. It doesn't mean you owe me anything. It doesn't mean I expect anything. Two people with too much tension and not enough outlets did something stupid. It happens."
"So you're saying it meant nothing."
"I'm saying it doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to."
