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“Working, isn’t it?”

She sets the knife down, turning in my arms. Her eyes search mine, and fuck if I know what she’s looking for. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This.” She gestures between us. “The cooking, the stories about your mom…”

I could lie. Should lie. But her eyes keep mine trapped, and suddenly, I’m too tired for games. “Because you’re here.”

“I’m always here.”

“No.” My hand cups her face before I can stop myself. “You’re never really here.”

She leans into my touch, just slightly. “I?—”

“Don’t.” I drop my hand. “Don’t say whatever you’re about to say.”

Her lips part, then close. She nods once, turning back to the bell pepper.

I step away, giving us both space to breathe. “Let’s finish these wraps.”

I finish assembling them, trying not to watch Naomi too closely as she carries the plates to the living room. She curls up on the couch, tucking her feet under her like she belongs here. Like this is normal for us.

I settle next to her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body but not quite touching. She’s looking past me, her eyes fixed on something behind my shoulder.

“What?” I follow her gaze to the crystal vase on the side table.

“Nothing.” She takes a bite of her wrap, and I can’t help but stare at the way her lips close around it and the bob of her throat as she swallows. “It just looks… special.”

Didn’t she say she wouldn’t eat? Don’t ruin it, Brandon. Don’t say anything.

“You want a picture?” Naomi asks.

I smirk, settling deeper into the couch cushions. “Maybe I will. Could sell it to the tabloids. Naomi Smith caught eating. Bet that’d make headlines.”

She flips me off, taking another bite. Is she actually hungry? Or is this one of those binge episodes she thinks I don’t know about?

But she eats slowly, savoring it like it’s some gourmet shit instead of a thrown-together wrap. It’s… different. Usually, when I’ve seen her eat, it’s either not at all, forced, or it’s frantic, afraid the food will disappear if she doesn’t inhale it fast enough.

But this? This is slow. Deliberate. Almost… normal.

Just like she used to eat the vodka pasta in college.

Some of the tension bleeds out of my shoulders. Maybe this is okay. Maybe she’s okay.

“I’m not going to run for the bathroom.” She sets the wrap down, hands twisting in her lap. “I don’t… I don’t do that every time.”

“No?”

She focuses on the wrap. “When everything else feels like it’s spiraling, this is the one thing I can control.”

I nod, even though I don’t fully get it. How could I? But I want to. I want to understand her, all of her.

Even the broken parts. Especially the broken parts.

“And with you here.” Her voice turns so soft I have to move closer to hear her. “It’s somehow easier.”

My mind spins, trying to find the right thing to say. But what do you say to that? How do you respond when the woman you’ve been chasing for years finally cracks open the door just a little?

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