He glances at me again, something almost teasing in his eyes. “Sometimes.”
“Good to know,” I murmur.
We fall into a rhythm after that, the conversation coming easier as he cooks. He doesn’t offer more about his past, and I don’t push. But he asks about mine, and somehow the words come easier than I expected, like something about him makes it okay to say them out loud.
I tell him about my parents—how they died in a car accident when I was seven, too young to hold on to much more than the shape of them. How my aunt took me in after, more out of obligation than anything else.
“She kept me fed and clothed,” I say, turning my water glass slowly on the table. “Made sure I did my homework, got to school. But it always felt like a checklist. Like I was something she’d agreed to manage, not someone she wanted.” I shrug, a little embarrassed at how much came out. “I don’t think she ever forgave me for existing. I was the reason her sister was driving that night.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly when I finish.
I shrug slightly, though my chest feels a little tight. “It was a long time ago.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”
I look at him then, really look at him, and something in my chest shifts again. “No,” I admit softly. “It doesn’t.”
Dinner is ready not long after, and we eat at the small table. The conversation is lighter now, easier. He tells me a storythat makes me laugh—something about being the smallest kid in his first unit until a growth spurt and two years of training turned that around.
Suddenly, it feels like I’ve known him forever. Like everything is going too fast. Especially for someone like me. But I don’t try to slow it down. I don’t want to.
Because sitting here with him and watching the way he looks at me, it feels like I’m the only thing that matters in this moment. I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. Safe. Wanted. No one has ever made me feel that way since my parents’ death. Not even my aunt…especially my aunt.
She takes care of me, sure. But it’s almost performative. Robotic. As if going through the motions.
By the time we’re done eating, the air between us feels different. I help him clear the table, carrying the plates to the sink while he rinses them off. The quiet between us is comfortable, but it hums. It feels like a shift, like whatever this was supposed to be has changed into something else entirely.
I dry my hands slowly, turning to face him. “This was really nice,” I say, meaning it.
“It was,” he agrees, but there’s something in his voice that makes my chest tighten slightly.
I notice it then. The seriousness in his tone.
“Asher?” I say softly.
His gaze holds mine, like he’s contemplating. For a second, he just looks at me, then he exhales slowly. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
My stomach drops a little at that, the shift in his tone impossible to ignore. “Okay…”
He runs a hand over the back of his neck, then looks at me again. “And you’re probably not going to like it.”
That doesn’t help. A small knot forms in my chest, but I nod anyway. “Just…tell me.”
There’s a brief pause, like he’s choosing his words carefully, then he says, “You’re in danger.”
For a second, I just stare at him, confused. Then, I wait. For him to smile. To say he’s joking. To take it back.
He doesn’t.
“What?” I breathe out, my voice barely above a whisper.
“There’s a contract out,” he continues, his voice calm but firm. “On you.”
My heart starts racing instantly, my mind struggling to catch up. “That’s not…that doesn’t make any sense.” I shake my head, taking a step back from the table. “A contract. You mean like—” I stop because the word feels absurd in my mouth. “You mean someonepaidto have me hurt?”
“Killed,” he says. Flat. No softening it.
The word knocks the air out of me. “No.” I shake my head harder, backing toward the door now without deciding to. “No, that’s insane. I’m a barista. I’m nobody. I don’t have enemies, I don’t have money, I don’t—why would anyone—” My voice cracks. “This is a mistake. It has to be a mistake.”
