Page 35 of Love Me Stalk Me
His expression falls slightly, replaced by something more neutral. "I live close," he says, brushing it off.
"That still wasn't the question."
He watches me, like he's debating how much to say. Finally, he exhales, the sound soft in the quiet room. "I don't sleep much. Even when I have the time."
I don't like how familiar that sounds, how his admission echoes my own sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling, mind racing with all the things I should have done differently.
But I don't say that.
"Now you," he says, fixing me with a level stare.
"Now me what?"
"Did you sleep?"
I hesitate, but for some reason, I answer honestly. "I slept fine."
The second the words leave my mouth, my mind flashes back to Caleb's message last night. The one that told me to go to bed, to rest, to take care of myself when no one else seemed concerned whether I did or not.
And worse—the fact that I actually listened.
A slow, creeping warmth spreads up my neck, heating my skin.
Callahan's eyes switch to me, like he notices me blush. "Yeah?"
I take a bite of my sandwich—because, if I'm being honest, I am kind of hungry—and immediately hate how good it is. The flavors burst across my tongue, making me realize just how long it's been since I had a proper breakfast.
Crispy edges, perfectly melted cheese, just the right balance of salt and spice. The sort of breakfast that makes youclose your eyes, just to really taste it. My stomach growls appreciatively, demanding more after the first bite reminds it what real food tastes like.
I swallow, already reaching for another bite before I realize what I'm doing. "Where'd you get this?" I ask, because I need to know where this level of perfection comes from.
Cal doesn't even look up from his coffee. "Made it."
I pause mid-chew, the sandwich hovering near my mouth. "You made it?"
He nods, like this is not a deeply shocking revelation. Like making the best damn breakfast sandwich I've ever had is just a thing he does. Casually. Without warning. As if all men know how to cook food that makes you want to groan out loud.
I ignore the deeply unhelpful part of my brain that's pointing out how attractive it is that this man—this ridiculously big, brooding, tattooed man—knows his way around a kitchen. That he took the time to prepare something specifically for me.
Instead, I focus on the sandwich. The perfect ratio of egg to cheese, the way the bread is toasted just right—crisp on the outside but still soft inside.
And how my stomach is currently informing me that I need another one. Immediately. To make up for all the times I've denied it proper sustenance in favor of caffeine and convenience.
Cal finally looks at me, raising an eyebrow as I take another too-eager bite. "Healthier when you cook at home," he says simply, his deep voice matter-of-fact.
I chew slowly, narrowing my eyes at him over the sandwich. "You didn't have to do this."
Something shifts in his expression—a flash of something buried deep, gone before I can catch it. He just shrugs. "Yeah. I did."
His voice is steady. Certain.
Like it's just a fact.
Like there was never a scenario where he wouldn't have done this for me.
And that—more than the food, more than the absurd deliciousness of it—unsettles me the most. The certainty in his voice, the way he takes care of me without being asked, without expecting anything in return.
I swallow, not sure how to respond to this unexpected kindness.
