"Smells good." He lifts the lid slightly. "Chicken?"
"Piccata. There's pasta too. And vegetables." I'm rambling. "I wasn't sure what you liked so I just made what I know how to make and—"
"It's perfect."
The words are quiet. Simple. But something in the way he says them makes me dream about what could we be if I wasn’t running.
"You eat yet?" he asks.
"What?"
"Have you eaten? There's enough here for two."
Is he… Is he inviting me in?
"I can't." The words tumble out too fast. "I need to—I have to—"
"Pack." He says it flat. Not a question.
I stare at him.
"You're leaving." Still not a question. "Tonight, probably. Getting out before they come back."
How does he—
"Your face," he says, like he can hear the question. "You look like someone about to run."
I should deny it. Should lie. Should do anything other than stand here confirming his suspicions.
"It's safer," I whisper. "For everyone."
"Safer for who?"
"For you." The words crack. "Castellano doesn't forget. Doesn't forgive. Those men saw you. Heard you. If he thinks you're protecting me—"
"Let me worry about that."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand plenty." His voice stays level. Always calm. "I understand you're scared. I understand these men have power. I understand you've been running and you're tired."
Yes. All of that. Exactly that.
"But running tonight won't make you safer, Nora. It'll just make you alone in a different place when they find you again."
"You don't know that they'll—"
"Yeah, I do." He shifts his weight. "Men like that? They don't give up because you moved apartments. They have resources. Connections. You leave tonight, you'll be looking over your shoulder in a new town by tomorrow, wondering if every car is following you."
He's right. God, he's right and I hate it.
"So, what do I do?" It comes out desperate. Broken. "Just stay here and wait for them to come back? Wait for Castellano to—"
"You stay here and we figure it out."
We.
Like it's that simple.
