Page 35 of Dash

But he doesn’t move. He turns to the table and as if nothing happened, he says, “Wasn’t sure what you like.”

He hands me a plate. It’s one of my favourites. It has little daisies painted on the ceramic and the chip on the rim pisses me off because it ruined something good. I’m that fucking chip.

“You bought enough to feed a small army,” I remark.

He smirks. “Then I hope you’re hungry. Whatever we don’t eat tonight, we can eat tomorrow.”

My head snaps up, the world stilling. There’s a ringing in my ears, a pulsing in my throat.

“You… you want to come back tomorrow?”What is happening?This isn’t normal. Guys don’t stay. They sure as hell don’t feed me.

He nods. “If you’re not busy.” There’s no fanfare or hesitation when he says that. As if he genuinely means he’ll be here.

“I’m working until seven.”

“Then I’ll be here after that.” I don’t move to put out any food. I clutch my plate like a shield. His eyes slide in my direction, that dip appearing between his brows. “You okay?”

I’m not, and I can’t stop the words spilling out, even though I definitely should.

“I thought you left.” Shit, did my voice waver? Did I sound as pathetic as I think I did?

He frowns. “What?”

“When I woke up alone, I thought you left.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s redundant, considering he’s sitting in front of me.

His throat works, his jaw ticking, and he’s angry but not at me. “I wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye and I fucking hate that someone’s made you think that’s what happens.”

Oh.

Fuck.

If my heart keeps beating the way it is, I’m going to have a heart attack. “But you didn’t leave.”

I shouldn’t care that he stayed. Isn’t that what I want? Easy men, no strings, no one to care.

No one to feel.

But the thought of him walking away makes me feel sick.

The way he looks at me, it’s like he sees things I don’t. And when he speaks, it’s gentle. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.”

I stare at him, trying to read between the lines, but I can’t. I don’t know this scene. It doesn’t usually play out like this.

“I don’t… know what to do with that,” I admit. “Why are you… what are you… what are you expecting from me?”

He puts the container he’s holding on the table and gives me his full attention.

“Nothing. The only thing you need to do, Dayna, is eat the food before it gets cold and pick whatever fucking movie we’re watching next.”

But I don’t care about the food or the movie. I care that he stayed. I care that he’s trying to take care of me. I care that he protected me from something awful and doesn’t expect anything in return.

I don’t think about my actions. I surge towards him and slam my lips to his. It’s a clumsy kiss, bruising and desperate. It feels right, but I doubt it the moment it lands.

What are you doing?

I pull back, or try to, but his hand wraps around my nape, holding me where he wants me, like he thinks I’ll run. Then his mouth devours mine like he’s starved.

I can’t think. Can’t breathe. I’m just locked in this moment, this blissful moment.

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