Page 57 of When Love Found Us
He glances over his shoulder, gives me a look that says,Isn’t it obvious?
And I sigh because it’s unfair, the way he looks in the morning—calm, relaxed, so at ease in his own space. In our space? I need to stop thinking about that, or I’ll spiral into a place where I might end up wanting to kiss him—again. We definitely don’t want a repeat of that. Nope.
He gestures toward the kitchen island. “Sit, it’s time to eat, sweetheart.”
“I can make my own breakfast, you know.”
Atlas raises a brow, setting the plate down in front of me before going back for my tea. “You could, but you might not.” He smirks as he hands me the mug. “So . . . let’s not get into that and just have breakfast.”
I stare at him, then at the perfectly cooked eggs, toast, and sliced fruit. “You know I’m fully capable of feeding myself, right?”
“Sure.” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “But how do I know you’ll do it properly? We can’t have the peanut go hungry because you forgot to add more protein or . . .”
I narrow my eyes, taking a slow sip of tea. “I think I can prepare a balanced diet.”
Atlas shrugs, but there’s something too smug in his expression. “I know from experience that if I let you to your own devices, you’ll grab a granola bar, sip some tea, and call it a meal.”
I pause, eyeing him. “That’s oddly specific.”
He narrows his gaze. “That’s exactly what you did three days ago when I went out of town.”
Damn it. I should’ve known he wouldn’t let it go.
The only reason he even knows I skipped lunch is because I left the granola bar wrapper on my desk and never stepped out of the shop.
“In my defense?—”
“A granola bar is not lunch,” he cuts me off.
I stab a piece of egg with my fork, refusing to give him the satisfaction of being right. “You’re very nosy.”
He grins like this is some kind of game. Like he likes knowing these things about me.
Which should feel intrusive.
But coming from him?
I like it.
“Will you ever let me cook?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Maybe we can cook dinner later today.” The “maybe” doesn’t sound convincing at all.
I huff because I already know how this will play outif,by any chance, I do get to cook. He’ll hover. He’ll “assist.” And before I know it, he’ll take over completely while I stand there watching him do it all.
I take a bite of watermelon. He watches me like it matters that I’m eating.
Like I matter.
And this—this is why breakfast, or any meal, feels different with him. He waits until he’s sure I’m eating before plating his own food; standing across from me like this is just normal. Like this thing we’re doing—existing in the same space, sharing meals, sharing mornings—isn’t something temporary.
Like it means something and is becoming permanent, that last part scares me a lot, but I try not to think about it much, or I’ll run away. And that’s something I can’t afford. I don’t mean it financially because the salary he’s giving me is really good and I don’t need to spend money at all, but . . . what if I leave town and that’s when Winston finds me?
Once Atlas is done eating, I start washing dishes. It’s the one compromise I managed to win. At least this way, I get to do something around here instead of letting him take care of everything.
By the time I step downstairs, Atlas is already in his station, hunched over his desk, digital pencil in hand.
I lean against the counter, watching for a moment. The way his brow furrows, his fingers tracing over lines he’s already drawn, something completely absorbing him in a way I rarely get to see. This isn’t the sketch of a tattoo. He’s drawing. When I get closer, I realize it’s not just a sketch. It’s a comic.
