His POV

The meeting ended an hour ago.

They left through the front door one by one—men who understood my silences better than my words. Orders given. Territory secured. Blood avoided, for now. When the house finally fell quiet, I loosened my cuffs and headed for the kitchen.

She followed.

She always did.

I could feel her presence before I heard her—soft footsteps, the faint rustle of fabric. She leaned against the counter across from the stove, chin resting on her palm, watching as if this were the most important thing happening tonight.

“You’re cooking again,” she said, pleased.

“I eat,” I replied, turning the burner on.

“For someone so scary,” she added lightly, “you do it very gently.”

I didn’t respond. I filled a pot with water, movements automatic. Pasta was easy. Reliable. Something that made sense. I had cooked it for her the first night she’d ended up here by accident—too late, too tired, too trusting.

She hadn’t left since.

The kitchen was quiet, warm. I could feel her eyes on my hands as I worked—on my forearms, on the way I rolled my sleeves just enough to avoid the flame.

She stepped closer.

“Why pasta?” she asked. “You make it every time I’m here.”

“Because you eat it,” I said.

She hummed, unconvinced. “You never get tired of me, do you?”

That— That was a dangerous question.

I stirred the sauce, slower than necessary. Steam rose between us, carrying the scent of garlic and oil and something domestic that didn’t belong in my world.

“You’re standing too close,” I said quietly.

She smiled like she’d won something. “You haven’t moved.”

She was right.

I reached for the salt. My wrist turned without thought.

Just a fraction.

Enough.

Her voice stopped.

“…Wait.”

I felt it the second her eyes locked there—small black ink, tucked just beneath the bone. A word so harmless it looked absurd on my skin.

Pasta.

She stared. Then laughed once, breathless. “No way.”

I pulled my sleeve down immediately.

“You weren’t meant to see that.”

Her smile softened, something unfamiliar replacing the teasing. She wasn’t joking now.

“You tattooed my nickname,” she said slowly. “You didn’t even tell me.”

I plated the pasta, focused on keeping my hands steady. Control was a habit. One I had trained for decades.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I said.

She walked closer until she stood beside me, close enough that her arm brushed mine—light, deliberate.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she murmured.

I set the plate down between us.

“I cook for you,” I said evenly. “I keep you safe. That’s all.”

She looked at me for a long moment, eyes searching my face like she already knew the answer.

She didn’t move away.

And that was the problem.