Page 118 of On the Breakaway

I squeeze through the gap before she can stop me.

“A hostile takeover.”

“Grayson!” She squeals, the sound echoing through her foyer.

I set the grocery bags down on her kitchen counter while she lingers in the doorway, arms folded, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and mild betrayal. My eyes scan her space, noticing how it feels like her in a way I can’t quite explain. It’s all warm velvet textures and soft gold tones layered through the decor. It’s cluttered and a bit messy, but in a comfortable way.

“You told me you wouldn’t try to buy my groceries again,” she says, already digging through the bags.

“Technically,” I reply, leaning against the counter like I’ve done this a hundred times before, “I bought myself groceries. I’m just choosing to prepare and consume them in your kitchen, which is really more of a location-based decision than a violation of any agreement we may or may not have made.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re cooking?”

I glance over my shoulder at her, watching the way she pauses with a bag of carrots in her hand as if I’ve just confessed to a crime.

“Yeah,” I say, a small smirk pulling at my mouth, “it’s that thing where you cut food into pieces, mix it, heat it up, and somehow it becomes something people eat, unlike the trash you’re used to.”

She sticks her tongue out, but I notice a smile twitch at her lips.

“I’m making the soup either way because now I want some,” I continue, pulling a pot down from the cabinet, “but if this whole sick thing was actually just a way to get out of going out tonight, I can also bake cookies.”

Her face perks up.

“Am I baking the cookies, Chaos?”

I laugh when she nods her head vigorously, so I start pulling ingredients together on instinct.

“You can make the food,” she says, sliding onto a barstool and watching me like I’m entertaining and inconvenient at the same time, “and then you can leave.”

“Sure,” I answer, grabbing a knife and setting a cutting board down, “we can eat, and I’ll leave. Right after we talk.”

Her expression hardens instantly. “I didn’t agree to any talking.”

“Too bad.”

She exhales through her nose, dragging both hands through her hair like she’s trying to reset her patience.

“You said you’d stop avoiding me,” I add, quieter now, because I hate how much it matters.

“I’m not avoiding you.”

I stop cutting to look at her. “Then what is this?”

“Not everything I do revolves around you, Grayson.”

It’s harsh, but her eyes hold mine, shimmering with honesty.

I stand there, knife in my hand, realizing that I might’ve walked in here ready to fight a version of her that only exists in my head.

“Okay,” I admit finally, letting out a breath as I turn back to the counter. “I might’ve jumped to conclusions.”

I dump the vegetables into the pot and turn the heat on, the kitchen filling with the faint sound of simmering water as I reach for the cookie ingredients next to busy my hands.

“It’s fine,” she says after a beat, quieter now. “I just ran into my ex while we were in New York. It fucked with my head a bit.”

“Damon,” I say as it clicks into place. I should’ve considered it sooner instead of assuming I was the center of the problem.

“How much do you know about my ex?”