Page 39 of Stolen Harmony

He rolled his eyes and set the bag on the counter, unpacking its contents. Eggs, milk, real butter, a bunch of bananas, even a box of pancake mix and a little bottle of maple syrup. The domesticity of it was almost obscene.

“What, no kale chips?” I teased, watching his hands as he worked—long fingers, calloused palms, veins runningbeneath the skin. I wondered what those hands would feel like gripping my waist, tracing my spine, pinning me down and pulling me apart. The thought left me dizzy.

“I didn’t want to traumatize you on a weekday,” he deadpanned, lining up the groceries like he was staging an intervention. “I figured pancakes were safer. And coffee that doesn’t taste like burnt shoe leather.”

“That’s a bold assumption,” I said, stepping closer. I let my arm brush his, just to see if he’d flinch. He didn’t. If anything, his jaw tightened, but he didn’t move away.

He looked at me then, really looked, and I felt something shift in the air—like gravity realigning, drawing us closer whether I liked it or not.

“Your mother taught me how to make these pancakes with?—”

“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than I intended, cutting through the moment before it could turn into something that would burn us both.

A soft meow interrupted the tension, and Roxie appeared from under the couch, weaving between my legs with the particular brand of neediness that came from being abandoned too many times. She was getting bolder, venturing out during the day now, but she still startled at sudden movements.

Elias's expression softened when he saw her, the careful neutrality melting into something more genuine. “Where'd she come from?”

“Found her on the road,” I said, bending down to scratch behind her ears. She purred and butted her head against my palm, the simple trust of it making my chest feel tight. “Nearly ran her over on my bike.”

Roxie jumped onto the counter and sat primly between us, tail flicking like she owned the place. Elias’s gaze softened as he watchedher.

“She doesn’t look like she misses the road much.”

“Of course not. She’s got gourmet kibble now. Living the dream.” I nudged her gently off the bread I’d left out. “She’s also a total freeloader. Doesn’t pay rent, doesn’t do chores. Just sleeps on my chest and drools.”

“Sounds like she learned it from her owner.” Elias’s mouth twitched like he hadn’t meant to let the jab slip.

I raised my brows. “Wow. So you come into my apartment with groceries and insults? Is this supposed to be part of your charm?”

“Maybe it’s just honesty.” He reached out to scratch Roxie under the chin, and she leaned into it like he’d earned the right. “Seems like she prefers me already.”

“Traitor,” I muttered to Roxie. “Don’t get too attached. He’ll probably start bringing you herbal tea and lecture you about life choices.”

That earned me a quiet huff of amusement from Elias, but the silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been, stretching until I felt the weight of his eyes again. The groceries, the offer to cook, the way he'd shown up at my door like he had some right to care about my wellbeing.

“Look, I appreciate whatever this is,” I said, gesturing at the bag on my counter, “but I don't need a babysitter. I'm doing fine on my own.”

“Are you?” His voice was gentle but pointed. “Because from where I'm standing?—”

“From where you're standing, what? You think you can just show up here and fix me?” The words came out sharper than I'd intended, fueled by embarrassment and the particular kind of anger that came from being seen too clearly. “Do I need permission now to sleep with guys? What, you got a problem with it? You some kind of homophobe or something?”

Elias went very still, and I watched something dangerousflicker behind his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but edged with steel.

“Is that really what you think of me?”

The question hit harder than shouting would have. There was hurt in it, real hurt, and something else I couldn't name.

“I don't know what to think of you,” I shot back, my voice cracking slightly. “You show up here with groceries like we're family, like you have some right to?—”

“To what? Care whether you're destroying yourself?” He stepped closer, and I could smell his cologne, something clean and warm that made my stomach do things I didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Care?” I laughed harshly. “That what you call it? Pretty sure the word isnagging.”

“Funny,” he said flatly. “Most people would call it keeping you alive.”

“Yeah, well, most people don’t stock my fridge like some kind of judgmental fairy godmother.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost—but his voice stayed rough. “Because that's all this is, Rowan. Watching you drink yourself to death at nine in the morning while you fuck strangers to feel something.”