Page 92 of Break Me

“You always assume the worst.”

“I assume it was about probation.”

“You don't miss much,” he says, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “I'm honestly surprised you haven't interrogated me yet.”

“I considered it.”

“Oh?”

“I decided to let you eat first.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “That was very generous of you.”

“I know.”

His smile softens. “It's done.”

I still. “Done how?”

“Lifted,” he says. “All the way.”

Without thinking, I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his. “Good.”

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze.

“I thought you'd think so.”

We turn our attention back to dinner, the conversation settling comfortably between us.

Halfway through my plate, I slow down. Not because the food is bad, but my stomach feels oddly full. Like it decided it’s done even though my brain hasn’t caught up yet. I stare at my plate and try to will myself into finishing.

Sam notices. “You don’t like it?”

I look up, startled. “I do. It’s delicious.”

“Then eat.”

I make a face and take another bite, mostly to prove a point. I chew and swallow, as the fullness presses back, stubborn and unpleasant.

I set my fork down with a soft clink. “I’ll save the rest for lunch tomorrow.”

Sam’s gaze flicks to my plate, then back to me.

“You eat like a bird,” he mutters.

I laugh because it’s ridiculous, and because it’s better than thinking about how my jeans felt a little tighter this afternoon and how I unbuttoned them when I was alone.

“A bird,” I repeat. “Really.”

He reaches across the table and hooks two fingers around my wrist. His thumb brushes once, absent and familiar.

“You’re sure you’re okay.”

It’s not a question this time, either. It’s Sam making space for truth.

“I’m okay,” I say, and I mean it. “I think after everything with Ridgeback, I’ve been holding myself too tight. Maybe my body’s just finally realizing it’s allowed to rest.”

His expression softens. He leans forward and kisses my knuckles, quick and reverent.