Chapter 7 Atlee #2
“You think you’ll be able to go back to work on Monday?” he asks, clearly changing the subject.
I turn back to the stove, thinking about his question as I add salt to the now boiling water. The memory of the robbery flashes through my mind—the gun pointed at me, the fear that had paralyzed me. My hands start to shake slightly.
“I think so,” I answer, trying to keep my voice steady. “I need to. Can’t hide away forever, right? By then, I should be at least able to cover the bruises with makeup.”
“No one would blame you if you needed more time,” he says, and I can feel his eyes on my back.
“Maybe not,” I acknowledge, adding the pasta to the water. “But I’d blame myself. I don’t want to let fear win.”
I hear the scrape of his chair, and then he’s behind me, not touching, just close enough that I can feel his warmth.
“I’ll take you,” he says, his voice firm, not leaving room for argument. “I’ll drive you there and pick you up when your shift is done.”
I turn to face him, our bodies just inches apart. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to.” His eyes hold mine, intense and determined. “I want to.”
Warmth unfurls in my chest at his words.
It’s not just the offer of a ride. It’s the promise of protection, of not having to face my fear alone.
Maybe he won’t make me go home by myself either.
Living in my apartment, I always have an underlying feeling of anxiousness because I’m scared of someone taking advantage of me. Here, I can completely relax.
“Okay,” I agree softly. “As long as you’re with me, I think I’ll be okay.”
His hand comes up to cup my cheek, and I lean into his touch. “You’re stronger than you think, Atlee. But yeah, I’ll be with you.”
The timer on my phone buzzes, breaking the moment. I turn back to the stove, stirring the pasta.
“You know,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ve never cooked for a man before. Not like this.”
“No?” There’s curiosity in his voice.
“No. Never had anyone I wanted to cook for, I guess. Just my sister.” I start working on a simple sauce with the canned tomatoes, adding garlic and herbs.
“Well,” he says, moving beside me to grab plates from the cupboard. “I’m honored to be the first.”
I glance up at him, at this man who looks like he could wrestle a bear but who’s setting his kitchen table with such care. “Want to help me finish this up?”
“Just tell me what to do,” he says, rolling up his already rolled sleeves a little higher.
We work together, moving around each other in his small kitchen like we’ve done it a hundred times before. He chops some vegetables I found in his fridge while I finish the sauce, our elbows occasionally brushing, sending sparks across my skin each time.
“This smells amazing,” he comments as I drain the pasta.
“Just wait until you taste it,” I reply with a confidence I don’t entirely feel. What if he hates it?
But when we sit down across from each other, and he takes his first bite, the appreciation on his face is unmistakable.
“Damn, Atlee,” he says after swallowing. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
I shrug, pleased by his reaction. “Had to learn young. My parents weren’t exactly the type to make sure dinner was on the table. Lennon took a job early, and it was up to me to make sure the other stuff was done. Make no mistake, she took care of me, and I took care of her.”
His expression darkens slightly at the mention of my parents, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he takes another bite, making a sound of satisfaction that sends heat rushing through me.
“Well, their loss is my gain,” he says simply.
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the day’s exhaustion catching up to both of us. It’s strange how natural this feels, sharing a meal with him in his home.
“Thank you,” he says as he finishes his plate. “For cooking.”
“Thank you for letting me stay here,” I counter. “For keeping me safe.”
His eyes meet mine across the table, serious and intent. “I’ll always keep you safe, Atlee. As long as you want me to.”
There’s a promise in those words that makes my breath catch. We’re dancing around something here, something bigger than just attraction or convenience.
“I should probably do these dishes,” I say, not knowing how to respond to the intensity of the moment.
He stands, taking his plate to the sink. “We’ll do them together.”
And so we do, side by side at the sink, me washing while he dries. It’s such a simple, domestic thing, but it feels significant somehow. Like we’re building something, one small moment at a time.
When we’re done, he takes my hand, his callused fingers wrapping around mine. “Come on,” he says, leading me toward the living room. “Let’s rest for a bit.”
He sits on the couch and pulls me down beside him, his arm going around my shoulders as I curl against his side. Outside, the last light of day is fading, painting the mountains in shades of purple and blue.
“This is nice,” I whisper, afraid to break the spell of contentment that’s settled over us.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder. “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice a rumble I can feel through his chest. “It is.”
I tilt my head up to look at him, finding his eyes already on me. There’s a question there, one I’m not sure either of us is ready to answer yet. But for now, this is enough—his arms around me, the quiet of the evening, and the knowledge that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.