Page 32 of Omega's Fever

“Food’s here.” I nip downstairs and back up again.

Setting up dinner fills more time. I arrange everything on the dining table I rarely use, usually preferring to eat at my desk while working.

Kellen joins me at the table and sits carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking my chairs. He waits for me to start, then eats mechanically.

“Is it okay?” I can’t stand the silence.

“It’s good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We eat. I manage a third of my pad Thai before my stomach rebels. The suppressants make everything taste like cardboard anyway.

Kellen cleans his plate. Then looks at mine.

“You should eat more.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“When’s the last time you ate a full meal?”

I have to think. Yesterday? The day before? “I’m fine.”

“Liar,” he says again. Softer this time.

When he stands, I tense. But he just gathers our plates, carries them to the kitchen. The sight of him at my sink, massive frame bent over fixtures, breaks something in my brain.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m a guest.” He runs water, finds the dish soap without asking. “Guests help clean up.”

I watch, transfixed. Something about his huge scarred hands gently moving through soapy water is hypnotic. The orange jumpsuit pulls across his shoulders with each movement. He’s domestic and dangerous all at once.

“There are gloves. Under the sink. If you want.”

“I’m good.”

“The clothes should arrive soon,” I say to his back.

“Thank you.”

“It’s just basic stuff. We can get more tomorrow. Whatever you need.”

He dries each plate carefully, puts them back where he saw me taking them out. Then he wipes down the counters.

I don’t really know what to make of him. His scent is saturating my apartment like he’s marking territory.

I should hate having him take over my personal space, but something about it feels deeply satisfying.

He turns finally, leans against my counter like he belongs there. “Why are you doing this?”

“The judge—”

“Not that. The clothes. The food. You could have fed me cereal and left me to wear the jumpsuit.”

Because that’s the bare minimum? Was I supposed to leave him to starve? Wear nothing but the same old prison jumpsuit for possibly weeks on end. It makes me wonder about what his life was like growing up that he expects nothing at all.

He doesn’t apologise for everything like I do when I get stressed. Instead he asks for nothing, expect nothing.