seventeen #3
"Yeah."
"Did you...?"
"Yeah."
Another pause.
"And was it...?"
"Yeah," I admitted, voice small.
She let out a low whistle. "Jesus, girl."
I laughed, shaky. "I'm still processing this."
"So...what now? He just goes to work, and you hang out in his penthouse?"
"He has meetings. A press conference. He said he'd be back later."
"And you're just...there."
"Yeah."
"You want to be?"
I didn't answer right away. "I don't know," I said finally. "Part of me feels like I should've walked away last night after he offered, but another part..."
She sighed. "Yeah. I get it."
"I'm not stupid."
"I know you're not."
"I know there's a possibility that he could hurt me again."
"There is," she said softly, no judgment in her voice. "But if you're staying, just...be honest with yourself about why."
"I am."
"And if you change your mind—if you need to get out of there at 3am—call me. I'll come get you."
My throat tightened. "I know."
A beat of quiet.
"You really like him, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Just...be careful. People like him don't usually make things easy."
"I love you," she continued, softer.
"I love you too."
"Keep me posted. Promise."
"I will."
"Alright."
"Bye."
"Bye."
I opened the fridge. I wasn't hungry exactly, but I needed something to do—anything to make the waiting feel less heavy.
I pulled out eggs. A package of chicken. A bunch of herbs in little plastic clamshells.
Almost two hours later, the kitchen smelled like garlic and lemon. A skillet hissed on the stove. A wooden spoon tapped a quiet rhythm against the pot.
I was so focused on stirring that I didn't hear the door open at first.
Then the quiet shifted—the air changing the way it does when you're no longer alone.
I felt his gaze before he said anything.
A beat of silence.
Then his voice came, warm and low. "Should I be worried?"
I didn't turn. "About what?"
"That you're going to show me up in my own kitchen."
I rolled my eyes, but there was a smile tugging at my mouth. "Pretty sure all I've proved is you need groceries."
His footsteps crossed the room—unhurried, deliberate. He stopped just behind me, close enough that I felt the heat of him through the thin cotton.
He didn't touch me right away. Just stood there, letting the quiet stretch.
"You stayed," he said after a moment, voice softer.
I swallowed, keeping my eyes on the pot. "I didn't have anywhere better to be."
"That's not what I meant."
I hesitated, fingers tightening around the spoon.
"You could have left," he went on, lower now. "But you didn't."
I risked a glance over my shoulder.
His tie was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked tired in a way that didn't have anything to do with work, but something easy had settled into the lines of his face—like coming back here was the first good part of his day.
"I figured you'd appreciate not having to order takeout," I managed.
His mouth curved into a slow smile. "I appreciate a lot of things right now."
Something in my chest went tight.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For this." His hand gestured vaguely—my borrowed clothes, the food, the whole absurd picture. "For being here."
My throat felt unsteady. "You don't have to thank me."
"I do," he said simply. His gaze held mine, no teasing in it. "You made this place feel different."
I didn't trust my voice not to crack, so I looked down at the pot instead.
He stepped closer, his chest brushing my back. His hands came to rest lightly on my hips—just enough pressure to make me feel anchored.
"Smells good," he murmured, his breath warm against my neck. "You always cook when you're anxious?"
"I don't know," I said, quieter. "Maybe."
He pressed a soft kiss behind my ear.
I swallowed, unsure what to do with how gentle he sounded.
He pulled back just enough to look at me fully. "I have to go change. They're waiting on me."
"For the press conference?"
He nodded. "It shouldn't take long."
"Will you be back later tonight?"
He nodded. "Will you still be here?"
I turned, meeting his eyes. "I will."
That smile again—small, unguarded. "Good."
He brushed a kiss to my mouth, lingering a second longer than he needed to, then stepped away. I heard the low rumble of his voice as he called someone—Monte, maybe—then the bedroom door clicking shut behind him.
The kitchen felt emptier after he left, like I'd only imagined the whole exchange.
I shut off the burner, set the spoon down, and leaned against the counter, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
A few minutes later, I heard the door open again. He was back, dressed in a fresh suit, tie knotted tight.
He came back over, lifting a hand to tuck a loose piece of hair behind my ear. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
"You don't have to hurry."
"Yeah," he said, voice low. "I do."
Then he kissed me one last time—unhurried, like he was memorizing the way I tasted—and left.
The lock clicked into place, and I was alone again.
This time, the quiet didn't feel quite so heavy.