Page 114 of Pull Me Under

‘You’re worth staring at, Trelawney.’

She looks up. There’s a smile there, but it’s cautious. Guarded in a way it wasn’t a few days ago. Last night’s conversation still hanging in the air between us like smoke. When are you going to tell people about us?

‘You’re here early,’ she says.

‘Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about you.’

Her expression flickers.

‘Charmer.’

‘I try.’

I push off the doorframe, cross to the workbench. She watches me come, and I can see her deciding – whether to let me in, whether to keep her guard up. When I reach for her, she hesitates for just a second before letting me pull her close.

She fits against me like she was made for it. I press my face into her hair and breathe her in.

‘Hi,’ I murmur.

‘Hi yourself.’

We stand there for a moment. Just holding on. Like if we grip tight enough, we can keep the world outside from getting in.

‘Have you eaten?’ I ask eventually.

‘I had coffee.’

‘Coffee isn’t food.’

‘It’s a food group.’

‘It’s really not.’ I pull back, pluck the cold mug from the workbench. ‘I’m making eggs. You’re going to sit down and eat them like a normal human being.’

‘I’m busy⁠—’

‘The fuel pump will still be there in twenty minutes.’

‘It’s a fuel injection system, actually⁠—’

‘I don’t care what it is. Sit.’

She grumbles. Complains. Calls me a tyrant and a menace. But she sits, and there’s a softness creeping back into her expression as she watches me navigate her disaster of a kitchen.

I make eggs. Slightly burned, because her stove has two settings – volcanic and off – and she smirks when I slide the plate in front of her.

‘Perfection,’ she deadpans.

‘I’m a man of many talents.’

‘Apparently cooking isn’t one of them.’

‘And yet you’re still eating.’

‘I’m hungry. There’s a difference.’

We eat. The silence between us is comfortable, almost. But there’s a weight underneath it. A question neither of us is asking.

I break first.