Page 23 of Hooked On Victor
Rose shifted her weight. One bare foot pressed flat on the cold floor, the other curling slightly to keep balance. She reached up automatically, tucking damp hair behind her ear, fingers trembling just enough for her to notice and hate it.
“Morning,” she echoed, her voice quieter than she wanted.
He watched her carefully.
She felt like he was dissecting her with his gaze—every bruise, every slip of her breath, every thought she tried to hide.
Finally, he dropped his eyes to the mug.
“I, uh,” he cleared his throat. “I cook.”
Her brow arched.
He raised the spatula he’d set down beside him, as if to prove it.
“Just eggs,” he admitted.
The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself.
“And coffee?”
He nodded, holding up the mug. “Strong enough to wake the dead.”
He turned, poured her a cup with careful, almost delicate movements. The kettle rattled as he set it back down. The smell hit her instantly—burned, rich, the bite of caffeine promising something like normalcy.
He handed it to her.
Their fingers brushed.
He didn’t let go right away.
Neither did she.
The contact was small. Stupid. It burned all the same.
They stood there breathing, the rain a hush against the roof, the wind combing through the old boards.
Victor finally exhaled.
Rose felt the heat of it ghost across her collarbone.
She took the mug fully, wrapping both hands around it so she wouldn’t grab him instead.
“So,” she said finally, her voice scraping low.
He waited.
She swallowed.
“What happens now?”
The question cracked the quiet like thunder.
He didn’t react immediately.
He set his own mug down carefully, fingers lingering on the ceramic. Then he wiped his palms on the old towel hanging from the handle of the stove.
He leaned back against the counter.
