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“While I’d love to gloat that we worked up an appetite last night, I’m more curious—when was the last time you ate?”

I didn’t want to admit that it had been two days. That I hadn’t even noticed until now, with the scent of grease and salt making my head spin.

So I said, “A while.”

He didn’t push, but I could feel his curiosity.

He sat at the end of the bed and dug into his food without looking at me. I was grateful he gave me some space to eat because I dug in with my plastic fork, manners forgotten.

I resisted groaning.

The sausage was greasy and glorious, bursting with the flavor my body had been aching for.

After a while, when I had made a serious dent in my plate, he asked, “So…what are your plans, Daze?”

I licked my fingers, not even sure when I had abandoned my fork.

His eyes were on me again. Bright and searching.

“Plans?”

He nodded. “You sticking around or heading out?”

Ah.

I looked down at my plate, unsure how to tell him I had no goddamn clue what I was doing. “Why do you ask?”

“I want to spend more time with you.”

Once again, his honesty caught me off guard. My body burned.

I couldn’t meet his eyes.

I thought of the cop car.

The cash I barely had.

“I’m not…I’m not planning to stick around.”

“What direction are you going?”

I pushed the plate aside, anxiety creeping in at how fucked everything was.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Tristan said quickly. “I’m asking because I want to know, not because you owe me an answer.”

Despite everything, something inside me softened.

I glanced at him. There was no teasing in his expression now. Something deeper lived there. Not just desire.

Need.

I felt unsettled. I didn’t understand this man. Didn’t understand the breakfast, the questions, the look he was giving me.

“Why aren’t you running out the door, Tristan?” I asked quietly.

He frowned, thoughtful. “Maybe for the same reason you aren’t.”

I nodded and looked down at my clasped hands.