Page 128 of Nyx

Juliet

Just when I thought Nyx was loosening up a little, the flat tire has put him back on high alert.

When we get back to my apartment, he escorts me to the door, with his hand hovering over his concealed weapon. It makes me feel like a high-ranking politician being protected by the Secret Service.

I don't know whether to feel safe or more scared than I would be if I were alone.

He was a little less on edge last night. He's not one to engage in small talk, but I did all the talking last night, telling him more about what happened that set my new life into motion.

As we get into the apartment and he does his walkthrough, he doesn't seem to relax as he had before. Tension rolls off him in a tangible way, and it activates my own fear.

Instead of giving in to it like I normally would, I place my safety into his very capable hands and head to the kitchen, putting away the groceries before washing my hands and starting to make dinner.

It seems to take forever for the pasta to cook, but I somehow keep busy by wiping down the counter and cabinets until it's time to work on the chicken.

Instead of sitting and getting comfortable, he paces between the living room window and the back door as if he feels like someone is going to bust through one of them at any second.

"Is it only you tonight?" I ask after his millionth time walking past me toward the back door.

"No," he says, but offers no additional information.

"This is almost ready," I say. "We can probably just serve ourselves from the stove."

I see no point in making a simple meal into an event, so I pull a plate and a bowl from the cabinet, since I only have one of each, and hold them out for him to pick which one he wants.

When he doesn't choose, I hold the plate farther out, knowing he'll probably eat more than I will before heading to the stove to scoop the food into the bowl.

I give him space, letting him decide if he's going to relax enough to eat or if he's going to keep making tracks across the floor.

I'm grateful when he sits down across from me at the tiny table, plate loaded up with food.

I take a bite, chewing as I watch him.

"Thank you," he says before twirling his fork into the creamy noodles.

"You don't have to thank me," I assure him. "You have to eat. When do you sleep?"

Instead of answering me, he lifts his fork to his mouth and takes a bite.

He chews thoughtfully, using a napkin to wipe at his mouth.

I know he isn't doing anything to draw my attention there, but I still can't seem to keep my eyes from drifting.

"Your mother must be proud of your impeccable manners," I say, trying to distract myself with my own meal.

When the room fills with silence rather than a response, I lift my gaze back up to him.

I almost apologize for saying anything. Clearly, there's a story there he's not willing to share.

"I learned a lot about respect in the Marine Corps," he says before taking another bite.

The military background doesn't surprise me at all.

"How long did you serve?"

"Twenty years," he answers after he swallows.

I do the quick math in my head, knowing at a minimum he has to be thirty-eight, depending on how long he has been out. He looks much younger, the only tell being the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, but when he's not scowling, those seem to disappear.