Page 25 of Please Don’t Go (The Midnight Strike #1)

JOSIE

As I enter the kitchen, I freeze at the sight before me.

So much is going on, I’m not sure what to focus on first: Daniel singing along to a song in another language.

The glass containers on the island. More bags of groceries that I know I didn’t see when he showed up.

The pots and pans he has on all four burners.

“What are you doing?” I scan the counters and see fruits, vegetables, meat, shrimp, salmon, a variety of sauces, and seasonings. “And what’s with all the food?”

After we came back inside, I got a call from a potential new client. I guess the call ran longer than I anticipated because there’s so much going on, this definitely didn’t happen in the span of a few minutes.

Daniel lowers the music as he turns to look at me. “I should’ve asked you, but I figured you would’ve said no.”

“Said no to what?” I walk farther into the kitchen, eyeing everything and surprisingly, I don’t feel overwhelmed. It’s not messy; it’s organized despite how much space everything takes.

“I’m meal prepping for you.” He grabs a wooden spoon and one of the pots and fills three glass containers.

“I hope I’m not overstepping. I know you said you didn’t have the energy and life gets busy.

I know it’s easier getting takeout or buying already made meals, but sometimes there’s nothing like a home-cooked meal.

I hope this is okay. I promise to clean all of this up. ”

I’m at a loss for words. I attempt to speak up, but nothing comes to mind.

“Um…” Still nothing. “Ah…” I’m blanking here but the bridge of my nose stings and my heartbeat gets scarily fast. “How much do I owe you?”

He sets the pot in the sink and turns the one burner off. “I don’t want you to pay me. This is the least I can do since you won’t let me pay for the lessons.”

“Because that’s the least I can do…” It’s an open statement that I don’t have to explain. I know he’s reading between the lines. “You really didn’t have to do this. The already cooked meals are fine.”

“I wanted to. Pen says it’s my love language or whatever that’s called.”

I make a mental note to get referred to a cardiologist. The excessive beats are getting out of control, which can’t be normal.

“Did she now?”

“She made me take a test.” He grins. “Don’t be surprised if she sends you one. They’ll be random and have no purpose but to make you question if you got the correct answer. She once sent me one that said, ‘Can we guess which type of dog you are based on the way you eat your food?’”

“Which one did you get?” I step a little closer to him.

“It’s not right.”

“Which dog did you get?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Tell me.”

“Chihuahua.” He sulks, and it’s adorable. “But I think it’s bullshit and they stereotyped me because I’m Mexican. I should definitely sue for emotional distress.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, but he looks so serious, I can’t help but laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

That makes him smile. “I hope this is okay.”

“I…don’t know what to say. This really isn’t necessary.” I don’t tell him that I could hire a private chef if I wanted to, and that before Mom passed, we had one. “This is a lot. How much did you spend on all of this? I really need to pay you.”

“Please don’t.” He pauses like he’s considering what he wants to say. “Not to brag but I have NIL deals and they pay well.”

“It doesn’t matter. I?—”

“Grief is funny,” he blurts out. He scratches his head, like he’s embarrassed he said that.

“I…don’t know about you but after my…” He rubs the bridge of his nose and doesn’t meet my stare.

“Brother passed away…I felt small and everything felt so…big.” He sucks in a heavy breath, like he’s struggling for words and oxygen.

“Finding the energy to…brush my teeth felt like such a big task. Even after all these years, that feeling is still there. Grief…never gets easier. It keeps evolving and all you can do is adapt to it because it’s always going to be there. ”

My heart leaps before it comes to a standstill.

He didn’t just perfectly explain how I’ve been feeling but he opened up.

He’s not being funny, he’s not attempting to get me to smile, or saying something for the sake of trying to make me feel better.

He’s sharing a little bit of himself to me—the raw, vulnerable side he probably doesn’t let anyone see.

But guilt bleeds from his words, like he feels wrong for feeling that way.

“Grief is…funny,” I murmur, dropping my gaze.

He tucks a finger underneath my chin, forcing me to look into his soft, cloud-like eyes. “Very.” He smiles tenderly and something about it feels like a caress to my soul. It ignites the light in my heart again. “You’re not alone.”

I feel like we’re in this bubble and it freaks me out because bubbles can easily pop.

But this also feels different, like the bubble isn’t as self-destructive as it usually is. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but I know that Daniel needs someone.

I’ve never been someone’s person and I doubt I’m what he needs. I’m probably the last person who should be comforting him. But at this moment, it can’t hurt, right?

My smile is far from what might be considered one but his eyes, like they always do, are drawn to my lips. It feels like an automatic response or like two magnets. Whatever it may be, his eyes are there, and his face glows, and my heart does the only thing it can do: it goes mad.

I don’t dwell on the condition of my heart, though, because I notice something I never have.

His eyes. Light, gentle, and kind. I’ve always seen them, but now that I’m really looking at them, all I see is a heavy sadness.

His eyes have always been so bright; I never noticed the shadow hiding behind them.

It feels like a stage lighting tech, who makes sure the spotlight is on everyone, making sure they’re getting enough of it while he stands in the background. The shadows.

I try to garner words, something to help me help him know I see him .

All to show, nothing to give. The thought hammers in my head, like an incessant woodpecker, drilling and reminding me that I’m not good enough to help. Not good enough to be someone’s something.

But I don’t let myself pull back and hide in my corner of darkness. Instead, I cup his cheek, rubbing slow, gentle circles. “You’re not alone, Daniel.” And I’ve never felt more seen. But does he feel seen? “I’m here,” I opt for saying instead of asking.

Nerves are bubbling in my chest. I’m afraid I’ll say something wrong and ruin this moment.

I’ve never had a frozen-in-time moment, but this sort of feels like it. I want to encapsulate it and not let go. Store it in a safe place. But the moment gets disrupted by whatever’s boiling in the pot. The lid clinks and the boiling water attempts to spill out.

“Shit.” He scurries over and moves the pot onto the empty burner. “I promise I know what I’m doing.”

“I hope so because I don’t.” I eye the food on the counter, especially the raw chicken. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. “How long have you known how to cook?”

“Eight…no nine, I think it was. Mom didn’t play around.

Our age didn’t matter in the Garcia household.

She’d always tell us, ‘Tienen que ponerse las pilas, porque si me muero, que van hacer?’ There’s never a day she isn’t saying that.

And she’s also a firm believer in equality and hates all the machismo bullshit.

So unfortunately, she didn’t play favorites, but I like to make Pen believe I’m the favorite to make her mad. ”

The glee in his voice makes me smile. “What’s having siblings like?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “I?—”

“You can ask me anything, I don’t mind.” He pours the water into the sink, making sure the potatoes don’t fall.

“It’s…annoying. I’m the oldest so anything that ever happens falls on me.

” My stomach painfully knots at the melancholic sound in his voice.

“But uh, they’re great when they’re not annoying the fuck out of me.

Pen, God, she knows how to make a situation go from zero to one hundred in seconds.

Don’t ever put her down as your emergency contact.

And Adrian, he would…” He chuckles emptily but mournfully.

“Whine and lie about everything. He’d smile, popping those dimples—that I didn’t inherit—to get away with anything. And it always worked.”

He grabs milk, butter, and a few condiments, and that’s when I realize he’s making mashed potatoes, my favorite.

“I don’t have an emergency contact but?—”

“Put me down,” he casually supplies and grabs the masher just as casually. Actually, everything he’s doing seems like something he regularly does.

This feels so domestic.

“No, I don’t want to—that’s not necessary.”

He mashes the potatoes, hardly adding pressure, but it’s enough to make his biceps flex. I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to look away.

“You don’t want to what?” he presses, insistent as always.

Be a bother. Annoy you more than I already have. Inconvenience you. “It’s not necessary.”

“Mmm, I disagree. I think it’s very necessary. Put me in your phone.”

“No, stop being so insistent or I’m going to kick you out.” I’m not. As much as I like being alone, I like having him here more.

He flashes me a cute, boyish grin and before I know it, he’s grabbing my phone off the island, holding it up to my face, and unlocking it. I quickly go to him and try to grab it, but despite me being five ten, he’s still taller than me.

“Daniel, no.” I’m practically climbing him, but he’s not budging. I’m breathing harshly, trying to get it out of his grasp, but he only spins as he continues to put his information in my phone. “That’s not?—”

“All—” He looks down at me, and it doesn’t dawn on me until his eyes descend between our chests that I realize how close I am to him. Or that when he spun, I followed him, and now I’m pinned between the counter and him. “Done.”

“You didn’t need to do that.” I track his tongue as it pokes out and drags along his top and bottom lip.

“I did and I wanted to.” He pushes the wayward strands of hair away from my face and behind my ear.

His finger stalls at my hair before it drops down to my shoulder.

He slides the blunt tip of his nail in a circle, sending a chill down my spine.

“You’re O positive and an organ donor. I’ll need to know more about you. ”

His eyes darken, smoldering but freezing me in place.

“There’s not much to know,” I quietly reply, fisting my palms and clenching my thighs.

“I didn’t believe it before, and I don’t believe it now.”

My breath staggers when his finger bumps the strap of my tank top.

His eyes dilate and mine flutter.

Disappointedly, my phone buzzes in his palm, breaking the trance we found ourselves stuck in.

“Sorry. Here.” He steps back while handing me my phone.

When I look at the caller ID, I know I could call them back later because it’s one of my clients’ parents, but I answer it anyway because I don’t know what to say. I can’t wrap my head around what we did even though we didn’t do anything. He just…lightly touched me and I…liked it.

“I have to take this.”

He gives me a thumbs-up and resumes cooking while I do everything in my power to cool down as I step into my bedroom again.

A few minutes later and he’s cooking more things. My kitchen smells ridiculously good, and he’s singing that song that’s not in English or Spanish.

“What language is that?”

“Italian. This doesn’t bother you, does it? I can put something else?—”

This is so endearing, I can’t begin to explain why.

“No, it’s okay. I really don’t mind it. I feel like I’ve heard this before but in English? And I didn’t know you spoke another language.”

“This is ‘Con Te Partirò’ by Andrea Bocelli. You’ve heard ‘Time To Say Goodbye’ that he also sang but in English.

” He switches the song and instantly the dots connect.

“I don’t know if you were obligated to at your high school, but we had to take two foreign languages.

I picked Italian and for our final, we had to pick a song and sing a few lyrics.

We got extra credit if we sang the entire song. ”

“Aren’t you an overachiever?” I tease. “So, you can speak it then?”

“What can I say? I like getting good grades, and my dad would have also beat my ass,” he sheepishly admits.

“Can’t say I blame him. He and Mom came to this country and worked their asses off to give us a better future.

Getting good grades was the least I could do for them.

I still struggle with a few words, but overall, I can speak and understand it. ”

I nod because I know. Mom might’ve been one of the highest paid professional swimmers, but her life wasn’t easy before it. Then she accidentally had me and it fucked up her plans.

“I was homeschooled, but foreign language was still in my curriculum. I’m basic; I took Spanish.” I shuffle on my feet, twisting my ring.

When he notices, I stop. Nothing horrible or traumatic happened to me, but I hate talking about those years.

The loneliness. The long hours of constantly working at my desk with my teacher on the other side of the monitor.

Mom reminding me how useless I was anytime my grades weren’t where they needed to be.

“Say something to me,” I say before he gets the chance to get a word out.

He thinks about it for a second and exhales.

“Sto facendo di tutto per non baciarti in questo momento.”

I lift a brow, holding back a smile. “Well? You know I have no idea what that means.”

He stares at me for a long beat, his amber eyes holding me in place and burning me up. “I said, I hope you’re ready to eat.”