Page 30 of Held-

A loud rumbling sound interrupts the moment, and it takes me a second to realize it's coming from my stomach. Heat rushes to my face as Brayden raises an eyebrow, his lips quirking into that half-smile that makes my heart skip.

“When's the last time you ate something?” he asks, unlocking the door to the guest house.

I try to remember. Coffee this morning, but actual food? “Um...”

“That's what I thought.” He holds the door open for me. “Come on. I'll make us something.”

“You cook?”

The guest house is cozy and unexpectedly homey, with a small Christmas tree twinkling in the corner and throw pillows arranged neatly on a worn couch.

“Don't sound so shocked,” he says, shutting the door behind us. “Been feeding myself for a long time.”

“I'm not shocked,” I lie, “Just...pleasantly surprised.”

I hover awkwardly near the door, unsure if I should sit or stand. Being here in his space feels strangely intimate, like I've crossed some invisible boundary. My fingers fidget with the too-long sleeves of his hoodie.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, opening the refrigerator. “I’m not gonna bite.” He pauses, glancing over his shoulder with that crooked half-smile. “Unless you ask nicely.”

Heat rushes to my face as I settle onto one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. “Do those lines actually work on women?”

“You're still here, aren't you?”

“I'm here for the food,” I retort.

Brayden laughs, the sound rich and genuine in a way that makes my chest tighten. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, princess.”

“Well, I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Bad,” I say, watching him rummage through the nearly empty refrigerator.

“Bad news...” he confirms, closing the door with a sigh, “outside of beer and some soda, the fridge is empty.” He turns toward the pantry and pulls open the door, scanning the shelves. “Good news...” he says, moving to the pantry, “I have spaghetti and store-bought pasta sauce. That okay?”

“Spaghetti sounds great,” I reply, surprising myself with how comfortable this feels—sitting in his kitchen, wearing his hoodie, watching him cook for me. It's been so long since someone took care of me instead of the other way around. “Need any help?”

“Nope. Just sit there and look pretty.” He pulls a pot from a cabinet and fills it with water, his movements efficient andpracticed. “Though you're doing more than your fair share of that already.”

The compliment catches me off guard, and I duck my head to hide my smile. “Do you actually have cooking skills, or should I be worried?”

“I can make a mean spaghetti, but with these ingredients, maybe temper your expectations down a bit. Next time, I’ll grab some groceries and make you a proper meal.”

“Next time? That implies you’ll be around?” The question makes me pause. I know he has family here, but where does he call home? I never thought to ask. “Where is home exactly for you?”

“My club is based in Carlsbad, but figured I’d stick around a few days,” he answers, turning on the burner with a quick twist of his wrist.

“Why?” I blurt out before I can stop the question from exiting my lips.

He pauses, his hand still on the burner knob, and I watch his shoulders tense slightly. For a moment, the only sound is the quiet hiss of gas igniting under the pot.

“Because I want to stay.”

The simple honesty in his voice sends a flutter through my chest that I try desperately to ignore. “That's it?”

“That's it.” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that makes the fabric of his T-shirt pull tight across his shoulders. “Sometimes things don't need to be complicated, Cece.”

If only he knew.

If only it were that simple for me—just flip a switch, stop overthinking, stop caring so damn much. He says it as though the answer sits right in front of me, as natural as breathing. Meanwhile, I’m over here turning every feeling into a maze I can’t escape.