Page 39 of Twisted Violet

“Why not?”

Her shoulders lift in a small shrug.

“Fear of needles?” I offer.

Her brow furrows. “Something like that.”

I nod once, but I’m watching her now and I notice the way her shoulders tense and her eyes flick away.

She’slying.

I’m just not sure about what.

Vi doesn’t speak again. She just stands there, quiet in the kitchen’s silence, with her gaze fixed on something that isn’t there.

I catch the shift.

The way her shoulders sink, the way her eyes dull and her fingers still, like her mind’s slipped somewhere she doesn’t want to be. Somewhere heavy. Somewhere haunting.

I know that feeling, and now I understand why she offered to cook for me in the middle of the night.

It’s that need to do something, anything, to push off the weight pressing down on you. To distract yourself. To feel useful. Even if it’s only temporary.

“You know what.” I say, getting her attention. “I’m still a little hungry. Mind throwing together a grilled cheese for me?”

Her face lifts, just slightly, and she nods her head.

She moves quickly, like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind if she isn’t fast enough.

I sit at the island while she works, watching her.

She moves like she knows exactly what she's doing. Calm, focused, like the kitchen is hers, and always has been.

Butter hits the pan andsizzles on contact. The smell spreads instantly, rich and sharp and warm.

While she’s distracted, I let myself take a long look at her.

Violet is beautiful in a haunting way. Like a ghost who doesn’t know she’s still here. Ethereal and out of place in the best possible way. Lavender hair cascading down her back like silk, skin lit soft by the kitchen glow, eyes shadowed with things she doesn’t say out loud. There’s a sadness in her that makes her seem older than she is. Like she’s lived through too much.

She moves with this careful grace, like she’s trying not to take up too much space, or get in the way. Like she’s been told her whole life to shrink, and even now, even here, she forgets she doesn’t have to.

She’s pretty even when she isn’t trying to be.

Her fingers brush mine when she passes me the plate,barely,but it’s enough to remind me just how dangerous this is.

“I’m going to head back to bed.” She says, offering me a soft smile, as she heads out of the kitchen. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

“Thank you for the food.”

As soon as I hear her door click shut, I take a bite of the sandwich, and it’s good.

No, fuck that, it’s the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had.

And that’s a problem, because now I’ll want more.

And the last thing a man like me should ever do is want.

Especially when it’s something he knows he shouldn’t have.