Page 21 of Gap Control

He watched me and didn't respond.

I looked at the vending machine, then down at the floor. My hands tightened around the basket handle.

"I've been careful for years." I raised my chin. "About who knows what. What I give away. What I let show."

"Okay."

"I agreed to this because it was temporary. Contained. I didn't sign up to have strangers measure how close we stand in front of the freezer case."

TJ nodded. "That's fair."

"So, ground rules."

He raised an eyebrow.

"No touching unless it's for the cameras. No surprises. No personal questions."

He blinked. "You think I'm gonna ask about your childhood trauma while we pick out protein bars?"

I didn't laugh. Not quite. But I was happy to know I didn't dampen his humor.

"You're hard to block out."

TJ let his arms hang loose at his sides. "I don't do that on purpose."

"Exactly."

He tilted his head. "That a compliment or a warning?"

"Both."

TJ gave me a long look, then pushed off the wall. "Noted. No ambushes. No closeness unless someone's watching us. Keep it neat."

I flinched. Not at the words—at how he said them. Like he was backing away.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," I said.

"I know. You're trying not to get hurt yourself."

We stood in silence for a second. I was about to say something—maybe even something real—when he spoke again.

"Want to hear about the time I set my ex's kitchen on fire with egg rolls?"

I stared at him.

"I mean it. Like, actual flames. Not metaphorical. There was a fire extinguisher involved, and a very judgmental cat."

Despite everything—despite the photo and feeling too seen—I laughed.

It surprised us both.

TJ grinned. "There it is."

"Don't get used to it."

"No promises."

We returned to the central aisle.

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