I cleared my throat, because I refused to be the only one acting weird. “I had a taste for spaghetti,” I said, gesturing at the stove like it was no big deal, like I wasn’t acutely aware of the way his gaze made my skin feel too tight. “There’s enough if you’re hungry.”
For a beat, he didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on my face, intent enough to make my grip on the spoon go a little too firm.
Then his jaw worked once, like he was swallowing words he didn’t want to give me.
“I’m going to shower,” he said.
And then he turned and walked away like the kitchen was on fire.
I stood there with my spoon hovering over the sauce, staring at the space he’d just left, and tried—really tried—not to imagine the word shower attached to Wes Vaughn.
Steam. Tile. Water. A body I hadn’t asked to see but couldn’t unsee.
I blinked hard and forced myself back to the stove.
“Get it together,” I muttered to the garlic.
The rest of dinner came together on muscle memory. Pasta draining in the sink. Sauce simmering. Bread warming in the oven. I smiled at the stove. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d successfully cooked a meal from scratch.
Still, my brain kept snagging on the fact that Wes had looked at me. Really looked.
I plated two servings without thinking—two twirls of pasta, two ladles of sauce, Parmesan falling like snow—then froze with the second plate in my hand.
What was I doing?
I could leave his portion on the counter, covered with foil, like it was an offering he could pretend didn’t come with any expectation. I could take mine and eat in my room and let him do whatever he always did—rot on the couch with TV and silence.
I stared at the plates and felt that familiar tug between stubborn and scared.
Finally, I set both at the table anyway.
If he wanted to take his plate to the couch, then fine. At least I wouldn’t be forced to carry a steaming plate across the living room like some kind of anxious waitress in my own temporary home.
I focused on slicing the bread.
The house made small sounds around me—the oven ticking as it cooled, the distant hush of his footsteps above me.
My shoulders lifted with every creak, every footstep, until the moment I heard him again.
Wes came in quietly, like he didn’t want to be noticed. Like he could move through his own home without taking up too much space.
His hair was damp, darker at the roots. His face was clean-shaven, his jaw sharp, his skin flushed from heat. He smelled ... good. Not cologne. Just soap and clean skin and something faintly woodsy that made my mind go annoyingly blank for half a second.
He paused when he saw the plates.
His gaze shifted from the table to the living room like he was already mapping his default route back to the couch.
My heart did that hopeful, traitorous thing.
He reached for the plate.
I braced myself for him to take it and leave.
Instead, he pulled out the chair and sat down.
I kept my face neutral through sheer willpower, even as something inside me loosened like it had been waiting for proof that he wasn’t completely gone.
I sat across from him, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. My fork scraped against the plate. A swallow. The soft push of winter wind against the windows.
