Chapter 16 Clara #2
“‘Made’ is overstating it.” He glanced down at the plate, then back at me. “Came in a can. I twisted. The oven did the rest.”
“It still counts.” My lips curved. “They look good. They’re exactly how my mom used to make them.”
His gaze tracked the movement of my mouth. Heat crept up my neck, and I pretended to be extremely interested in the chair.
“I saved you the center one. It’s always the best.” Wes was staring at his plate as my grin widened.
I stacked three cinnamon rolls onto a plate and slid into the seat across from him.
The mug was warm in my hands, the first sip of coffee hitting my system like permission to breathe.
The cinnamon roll was soft when I tore off a piece, still warm in the middle.
I popped it into my mouth and had to fight a frankly obscene sound trying to crawl up my throat.
“They okay?” Wes asked, a hint of something wry in his tone.
“Dangerously okay,” I said once I’d swallowed. “I fear if you don’t act fast, I’ll eat them all myself.”
One side of his mouth kicked up, quick and fleeting, but it was there. “They’re all yours.”
The quiet that settled after that wasn’t the same brittle silence that used to fill this house. It felt fuller somehow. My heart was still doing that nervous tap dance, but there was a thread of something else woven through it now. Something that felt suspiciously like hope.
Last night we’d stood in the kitchen breathing the same charged air, half a second away from making a very bad decision.
This morning he’d slept in his own bed, cleaned his living room, and was feeding me breakfast from a can like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I finished my breakfast slower than I needed to, stalling without admitting that was what I was doing. When my plate was empty and my mug mostly drained, the old instinct kicked in—take yourself upstairs, retreat, hide away in logistics and to-do lists.
My legs didn’t get the memo.
“Thanks for this,” I said, fingers brushing the rim of my mug. “Seriously. It’s nice not eating cereal over my laptop for once.”
His gaze flicked to my face, steady in a way that made my chest feel too tight. “You’re welcome,” he said simply.
I stood, expecting him to do the same and vanish into whatever routine he’d built for himself here. Instead, he reached for the plates, carrying them to the sink with a casualness that felt like its own kind of miracle.
“Hey, I thought the rule was if you cook, you don’t clean.”
Wes paused and turned, gesturing to the list still hanging on the fridge. “I don’t see that rule up there.”
I playfully rolled my eyes, moving to the junk drawer to pull out a pen.
“Besides,” Wes added with his back to me. “Sometimes I like to break the rules.”
A delicious and slow tingle wove its way up my back as I suppressed a grin and wrote our new rule at the bottom.
Rule #8: The one who cooks doesn’t do the dishes.
I stood back and smiled at our silly little list.
“I think I’m going to hang out down here for a bit,” I heard myself say, the words already escaping before I could chicken out. I tipped my head toward the living room. “If that’s okay. I promise not to rearrange anything important.”
Wes glanced back at me from the sink, water running, sleeves pushed up his forearms. “You’re fine,” he said. “I was just going to read.”
A ridiculous warmth bloomed in my chest in a way that was almost embarrassing.
The armchair by the window welcomed me—the one piece of furniture that didn’t feel claimed by his insomnia.
I grabbed my knitting bag from the corner and dropped into the chair, the strap thumping against the floor beside me.
Kit had left it by the door with a note that said: For your boring old lady scarf.
Footsteps sounded a second later. I kept my eyes on the tangled ball of yarn in my lap, pretending not to track the way Wes crossed the room, hesitated for half a beat like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to relax in front of me, and then lowered himself onto the couch with a quiet exhale.
By the time I risked a glance, he was stretched out, long and solid, with an open book.
I dug into my bag until my fingers closed around two mismatched knitting needles, clacking together like they were mocking me.
Knitting was supposed to be soothing. So far, mine looked less like a scarf and more like a cry for help.
I adjusted the yarn into my lap and tried not to feel ridiculously aware of the fact that Wes had a clear line of sight to everything I was doing. He wasn’t staring. He wasn’t hovering. He was just there, in my peripheral vision, silently taking up space.
My imagination filled in the rest.
I slid the first few stitches onto the needle, tongue caught between my teeth in concentration, the yarn snagging at all the wrong points. By the fourth attempt the whole thing looked like it had been through a bar fight.
It’s you and me, yarn. Let’s try not to humiliate ourselves in front of the hot roommate.
A page turned on the couch, the soft whisper of paper scraping paper. I could practically feel Wes’s amusement, even if he didn’t make a sound.
Staying downstairs meant he was right there. In my space. In my line of sight.
It also meant I got to be in his.