I closed my eyes briefly. “You are not helping, Markie.”
Markie clambered down his enclosure ladder and puffed his feathers. “SYSTEM ERROR.”
“We just got home,” I told him.
“UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS.”
Liam stepped inside slowly, scanning the room. His gaze went from the windows to the corners to the kitchen, then lingered on the hallway for longer than was necessary.
He only relaxed when the door shut behind us.
That heat simmering low in my belly surged.
Why was he still here? He was free to leave. He had escorted me to the doctor. He had repaired a bar. He had survived a seventy-five-year-old woman with a romance novel. Delivered me back home. He was relieved of his duties.
Connection is not safe, my brain reminded me.
My body had other ideas.
My fingers twitched at my sides, like they were considering reaching for him and hadn’t decided against it yet. I held his gaze as he stepped closer, his warmth radiating off him.
I had planned out my night in my head while he’d calibrated plumbing, and it involved nothing but sweatpants, trash television, and ice cream eaten straight from the container. No responsibility. No one asking anything of me.
It was the perfect night alone.
I didn’t want to be alone.
The realization irritated me immediately.
I put my bag on the table and turned toward him before I could overthink.
“I’m celebrating,” I announced. “I will be engaging in extremely low-quality television and high-quality junk food.”
“That sounds consistent with your values.”
“It is,” I said, and because my mouth was committed to chaos today, I added, “You could join.”
There was a beat of stillness, and I started to think I’d miscalculated. Perhaps he was eager to leave me to my own devices and be done with our weird little connection.
“If you want.”
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened. “I’m not literate in trash television.”
“Don’t worry, I’m an excellent teacher.”
“I’ll ask questions,” he warned.
“I encourage curiosity.”
“I may analyze strategy.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What strategy?”
“The decision-making patterns,” he said. “Alliances. Incentives. Why they continue to trust people who have already betrayed them.”
I stared at him. “It’s reality television, not a war simulation. They’re not optimizing outcomes. They’re making terrible choices for emotional reasons.”
He frowned. “That seems unproductive.”
