Page 7 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

He chuckles. “Sandwiches are my love language. Food in general.”

“That explains the seduction,” I say. Then catch myself. “I mean. Not seduction-seduction. Just… you know. Palate seduction.”

“I’ll take it.” He picks up his own sandwich, a chaotic stack of salami, sprouts, and goat cheese, and bites it like he’s savoring every second. “You looked like you needed a food win.”

I narrow my eyes. “What gave it away?”

He wipes his mouth delicately. “You were standing behind me like a woman who might commit a hate crime if denied ham.”

“… fair.”

We eat in companionable silence for a few glorious bites. Then I wipe cranberry from my lip and say, “So. Edgar. What do you do when you’re not rescuing women from sub-par sandwiches?”

He swallows, then smiles that low-key smile again. The kind that says “this might be a little weird” but also “I’m not ashamed.”

“I’m a mortician.”

I pause, unsure if I heard him right. A slow grin spreads across my face as the words register. “That’s amazing.”

His brow lifts, wary. “Most people get uncomfortable.”

“Not me. I love a man who understands body disposal.”

He goes still, gaze locked on mine like I just upped the stakes. “That’s… not a common response.”

“I’m not a common girl,” I say, taking another bite. “Besides, if I ever have to bury an ex in the woods, I feel like you’d give great tips.”

He laughs, loud and startled, like I surprised him. Which is impressive, given the man works with corpses.

“I mean,” I add casually, “not that I’d do that. Obviously. That would be wrong.”

“Obviously,” he echoes, still smiling. “But,” he adds casually, “if you ever needed to hypothetically disappear someone, I know a guy who knows a backhoe.”

I raise my sandwich like a toast. “To hypothetical friendships with very useful men.”

He taps his sub against mine. “To the women who make them necessary.”

We fall into this rhythm, bite, banter, sip of fancy citrus water he somehow also got comped for us. He’s funny in that dry, observant way, like a man who’s seen some shit but still has the decency to be charmed by sandwich-based small talk. I keep waiting for the catch.

There’s always a catch.

But he doesn’t interrupt me. He doesn’t say anything sexist or weirdly intense about his ex. He doesn’t even look at my chest unless I’m already speaking, and then it’s just a quick flick before he locks back on my face like a goddamn gentleman.

Which means I spend the whole meal wondering what the fuck is wrong with him.

He laughs at the right parts of my story about last week’s date, the one who told me women who eat bread “lack self-discipline.” And when I say, “So I ordered a second basket,” Edgar smiles like I just punched a misogynist in the dick with a dinner roll.

He’s warm, but calm. Present. And tall. And his hair does this little flop over his brow like he’s in a gothic romance cover shoot and no one told him he’s the love interest.

I chew my last bite slower than necessary, stalling. Searching for any excuse to keep him sitting across from me. Evena red flag would do. Something to tell me he’s a narcissist or emotionally unavailable or secretly thinks kombucha is a personality.

Instead, he just watches me like I’m the most interesting thing in the room, then dabs his mouth with a napkin like he was raised in a manor, not a morgue.

“This was… unexpectedly fun,” I say, licking cranberry from my thumb.

“Agreed. I don’t usually pick up women in sub shops, but I might start.”

Oh no. There it is again. That gentleman villain smile. Like he knows five ways to disarm a bomb and all of them involve a wink.

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