Page 78 of Can't Always Get What You Want

She piles some chicken and rice onto a plate and grabs a fork, then makes her way over to me. Instead of handing the plate over like a normal person, she leans across the island and spears a piece of chicken herself.

“Open,” she says, eyes glinting.

I blink. “Seriously?”

She holds the fork steady, expression unflinching. “You’ve earned it.”

So I do. I lean in, open my mouth, and let her feed me a bite of what is—no joke—possibly the best lemon chicken I’ve ever had. Maybe because it’s delicious. Maybe because she made it. Maybe because her grin when I chew is so damn proud.

I nod slowly, mouth full. “Wow. Yum. You’re forgiven.”

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” she says, mock-offended as she loads another bite even though I know she already ate with Gio.

“I mean it,” I promise, pointing to the plate. “This chicken is doing most of the heavy lifting—I’ll give you some credit too.”

She laughs and slides the plate in front of me.

I dive in properly, forking a generous bite of rice while she hops up onto the counter next to me, swinging her legs gently as she watches me consume the food.

I eat in comfortable silence for a minute or two. She sneaks a bite off my plate like it’s hers. I let her. I would’ve offered, but she doesn’t ask.

When I glance up, she’s studying me in that way she sometimes does—like she’s working on a puzzle and I’m the last corner piece.

“What?” I ask, mouth half-full.

She shrugs, setting her fork down and wiping her hands on a napkin. “You’re good with women.”

I choke a little. “I—excuse me?”

She grins, cheeky and unbothered. “You are. Like, you’re attentive. Not a mansplainer. You listen and you’re not pushy. I’m a little confused.”

I blink. “Okay… thanks? I think?”

She nudges her shoulder against mine, voice a little more curious now. “So tell me—what’s your secret? Sisters? Strong maternal influence?”

I laugh and drop my fork onto the plate. “Sisters. Two of them.”

She snaps her fingers. “Knew it.”

“Older and younger,” I add. “I’m the middle child, which means I was born destined to be ignored and forced into conflict resolution.”

“Ah, so you were trained in emotional mediation from birth. Makes sense.” She tips her head thoughtfully. “Do they know you’re this smooth?”

I smirk. “They know IthinkI’m smooth. They also know I once literally pissed my pants when we were watchingPetCemeteryin the basement and our cat jumped onto the couch.” I chew for a few seconds. Swallow. “Also. They used to force me into their princess dresses. And my older sister, Madison, was into fashion design and she’d make me try on all the shit she made.”

She would make me model for her, pinning, hemming, and adjusting seams like I was her personal Barbie doll.

“I hate glitter.”

“That explains why you’re so comfortable around women,” she says. “You had sisters.”

“Exactly.” I lift my fork and point it at her like it’s the most profound thing I’ve ever said. “The trauma made me immune to the drama.”

Nova laughs, soft and genuine. “Immune? You sure about that?

“Um—do I have to remind you that I just spent an hour in your bedroom, with no contact with the outside world, and didn’t have a meltdown?”

She watches me eat for a second, quiet and thoughtful.

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