She went still for half a second. “You got me maple.”
“You live in the Adirondacks now.”
“That’s manipulative.”
I shrugged. “It’s a regional favorite.”
She took the cup from me and paused before drinking, holding it close to her face as the steam curled up between us. The scent of maple and espresso drifted across the table. Her shoulders eased, but I knew she would deny it if I pointed it out. She took a careful sip, and for a split second she let herself enjoy it. Her lashes lowered. Her mouth softened. Then she caught herself and straightened. I resisted the urge to pull her in and kiss her forehead.
“That’s very good,” she said, clearly annoyed that it was.
“I know,” I replied.
She glared at me and sat down, already unwrapping the breakfast sandwich with the efficiency of someone who didn’t believe in dainty bites. The paper crackled under her hands. She took a large bite and chewed with full commitment, no self-consciousness, no attempt to impress.
I sat across from her and found myself tracking every small movement. The way she leaned forward over the table. The wayshe balanced her injured ankle under the chair without thinking. The faint smear of maple foam left on her upper lip before she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
She caught me watching.
“Are you going to eat?” she asked, lifting one brow. “Or just watch me eat?”
“I’m eating,” I said automatically.
“You’re not.”
I looked down and realized my container was still sealed, my hands resting uselessly on either side of it.
Markie leaned forward from his perch, feathers rippling. “WEIRDO,” he announced with satisfaction.
Zoey nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Markie.”
I opened my sandwich and took a bite, forcing myself to focus on something other than the woman across from me. The roll was still warm, the egg firm, and the bacon crisp.
I barely tasted any of it.
It was getting harder to pretend this was only attraction. Attraction was easy to classify. It was physical, immediate, and temporary—if handled correctly. Somewhere between the hospital and her couch, this had moved past that.
I wanted her near me. That was the simplest version. Near enough that I could keep track of her. Near enough to touch. A hand at her back. Her knee against mine. The weight of her leaning into me.
I didn’t entirely understand why it felt so important. I only knew that every time she let me close, some deep part of me settled. And every time she pulled back, I felt the absence immediately.
She spent so much effort on sharpness. Dry remarks. Controlled distance. That cool, dismissive tone she used when she wanted to keep people from getting too comfortable.
I understood what it was for. It didn’t fool me.
She looked at me like she expected me to become a drain on her at any second, but under it was something softer that she seemed unwilling to admit. A tenderness she protected like it had already cost her too much. I saw it in the way she thanked people when she forgot to brace first. In the way she looked at Bobbi. In the way she kept acting like care was suspicious even while leaning toward it.
Something about that got past my reason, past my caution. It moved through my body with quiet, unnerving certainty, until wanting her near me felt less like preference and more like fact. I wanted to protect her from the things that had made her think the sharpness was necessary. I wanted to protect her from anything else that might get close enough to harden the quiet softness I knew was still there.
Zoey’s ankle flexed slightly under the table. She shifted her weight without thinking and didn’t wince.
“You’re moving better today,” I said.
“I’m fine,” she replied automatically. “Mostly.”
“You still don’t have clearance to drive.”
She gave me a look.
