Page 46 of Gunnar

“No, I’m good.”

For a moment the only sound in the room is the faint scrape of silverware against plates.

Then I glance up again. “Why did you all move here?” I ask, mostly to distract myself from the strange heat creeping up my neck. I’m still chewing when I realize how abrupt the question sounded.

I swallow.

“These are really good,” I add, which only makes it worse. They are, though—rich and buttery.

He watches me for a beat, like he’s forgotten the question.

Or maybe he doesn’t want to answer.

He starts on his second slice of toast. “Seemed like a good place to disappear.”

I frown. “From what?”

His chest rises and falls. “Family business.”

The words come out flat, like that’s been weighing on him for a long time.

Part of me expects him to leave it there.

Instead, he adds, almost as an afterthought⁠—

“Things got… complicated.”

I watch him—the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes shift away.

“Families,” I say. “They can be a lot.”

His gaze comes back to me. It lingers.

“Yeah,” he says. “They can.”

I could ask more. A hundred questions come to mind.

It doesn’t feel like something to push. I finish the last bite of toast instead.

After a moment he pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. I start gathering the plates, but he’s faster. He scoops them up and takes them to the sink, then he turns the water on.

I dash after him. “Hey—I’m doing those.”

He doesn’t pause. “I’ve got it.”

“You made breakfast,” I say. “It’s only fair.”

“I’ve got it,” he repeats.

I reach for the plate anyway. Our hands brush, and I pull back like I touched something hot.

That sensation again.

I catch myself before I do it twice.

“I’m not just going to be waited on while I’m here,” I insist.

He pauses, then hands me a plate. “Fine. You dry.”