“What? No. About the food.” He stiffens, and I force him to loosen his grip enough so I can turn in his arms. It’s so dark in the kitchen I can’t make out his face entirely, but I can see his furrowed brow. “I told Easton he had to stop bringing me your food. I didn’t think he’d send you to deliver it. That is not a loophole.”
His lips twitch downward into a frown. “You don’t like my food? Easton said you really liked the chicken and dumplings.”
Something feels off. Like I’m missing something.
“Yes, I like them. But I’m not taking your dinners anymore, okay? I’m going to learn to cook so I can take care of myself, and he can stop taking food out of your mouth to feed me.”
“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Leo, you’re not taking foodfromme.” I make a noise of protest, and he sighs, moving his hands to my shoulders. “The stuff Easton brings you is stuff I cook specificallyforyou, okay?”
For a moment, it feels like the floor has moved away from my feet. Then it’s like the walls have crashed down. What does he mean he cooked it for me?
“Easton told me it was your food,” I protest, my voice weak.
His frown deepens. “It is my food.”
“But—”
“Oh my god. I love your brother, but his ability to string words together is abysmal for someone who doesn’t have a language barrier.” He lets go of my shoulder and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s my food because I cooked it. But it was for you. Except the carbonara, but I was going to make you some of that too.”
I take a step back, then another, then another. My ass crashes into the cabinets with a loud thud. “I don’t understand.”
North has been taking care of me all this time? Hating my guts, disgusted by my body, fucking me out of pity, and what? Feeding me? It doesn’t make sense!
“Leo?” he says. “Hey. Hey, are you okay?”
My ears are ringing, but it’s just panic, so I wave him off. “I, uh…I need a second.” Clearing my throat, I turn toward the sink and feel out blindly, turning the water on and cupping my hand under the stream so I can gulp it down.
A second later, North’s fingers close around my wrist, and he presses a glass into my hand. “This is probably better.”
“I don’t drink sink water,” I say. Granted, I just did, but I’m too fussy for a whole glass.
He sighs and takes it back, walks to the fridge, and fills it from the little pitcher on the inside.
My hands tremble as I take the glass from him, and I manage two sips before I feel sick.
“Leo,” he says after I set it down on the counter, “am I supposed to be sorry for what I did?”
I shake my head, stop, then nod, then shake it again. “I don’t know.” I fight to find the words for the question I want to ask. “Are you fucking with me?”
“What?” He sounds offended. Maybe hurt. “Why would I be fucking with you?Howwould I be fucking with you? I’m not poisoning your food, Leo?—”
“No, no. Just…” I rub my face with my hands until the sensation hurts. “You don’t like me.”
“Uh, no.Youdon’t likeme,” he corrects.
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s not completely wrong. I didn’t like him. He’s been a complete ass to me every time we’re in the same room together. But things have started to shift into something else.
Something new.
“You saw me naked,” I say.
He clears his throat. “Ah. Yes.”
“You thought my body was disgusting.”
“What?” He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he thinks my statement is funny. “I absolutely do not think it’s disgusting. That’s the problem.”
No. He can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep flipping everything I know upside down. I’m going to lose myself entirely if he does.
