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“And no controlling what happens next.”

Her lips part.

“This is your choice, Firecracker.”

I hesitate.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

She looks down.

“It’s—it’s okay.”

My heart kicks hard against my ribs.

But I don’t push.

Not this time.

I hold out the bag instead.

“Here. Eat something and maybe get some sleep.”

Her fingers brush mine when she takes it.

Fuck.

Even that tiny bit of contact goes straight through me.

I want to stay.

I want to take care of her.

I want to make her tea and heat up the soup and tuck her into bed. I want to lie beside her and hold her while she sleeps. I want about a thousand things I have absolutely no right to ask for.

So I don't.

I turn to leave.

“Mitchell.”

I stop.

For one second, I don't fucking breathe.

Then I look back.

She's still standing in the doorway, clutching the bag against her chest. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, her nose is pink from her cold, and those hazel eyes that have been haunting me for the past week are watching me.

“Are you hungry?”

Hope is a dangerous fucking thing.

I smile slightly.

“I could eat.”

She studies me for another second.