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“Yeah, soon. Not when I wake up soon. Soon can mean anything. You didn’t quantify the length of time and now I look like a crazy person to the police when I’ve already made myself look like an idiot reporting a stalker I have absolutely no proof of.”

Her explanation sounded unhinged even to herself. He wasn’t to be faulted for writing “soon” instead of x-amount of time, but she still felt the uncomfortable and real fear that came with someone invading her space, even if it didn’t happen. The feelings remained.

She pushed around him, and he barely budged. Stupid mountain of a man.

Her feet slapping on the kitchen tile sounded louder with her frustrated gait, but for some reason, she couldn’t let go of her irritation. She felt something—something besides emptiness and hopelessness—for once, and she latched onto it, no matter how unhealthy it might be.

Snatching up the knife, she jumped when his warm hand touched her bare shoulder.

Before she could turn in surprise, he ran his large hand down her arm to the hand holding the knife, coaxing it from her grasp before she could do something stupid like stab him on accident. She ignored the goose bumps his touch brought.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered entirely too close to the side of her head as he stood inches from her back with his head lowered. “I wasn’t clear. I went out to get some breakfast.” Cuffing her left bicep, he turned her with the hand not holding the knife to face the kitchen counter where a paper bag sat. “I brought you a biscuit.”

She sagged against him, the fight leaving her body at his calm and measured cadence.

He took a long inhale through his nose before lifting his head from next to her ear and stepping away to give her space. She missed his comforting presence immediately.

“Eat something. It might help calm you down. I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m fine,” she said, more confident than she felt. She walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of orange juice they bought yesterday, pouring a small glass to go with her breakfast. “Want some?”

“I’m good.”

She opened the cabinet above the sink and grabbed her medicine. Shaking out a pill into her hand, she popped it in her mouth and chased it with the juice before moving on to pulling the still warm biscuit from the bag.

“Are you okay?”

She turned at the concern in Aiden’s voice. Swallowing the bite she’d taken, she said, “Yeah, why?” She held up the sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit. “This is good, by the way.”

“You’re not sick, are you?” He stood a few feet from her, his eyes focused behind her. Her eyes followed his line of sight to the pill bottle. She cringed.

“Not in the way you think,” she muttered, averting her gaze.

He approached and propped his hip against the counter, crossing his arms. “You don’t have to tell me. I was only curious.”

The last bite of the biscuit felt like sandpaper going down her throat.

She wasn’t ashamed of needing medicine.

Liar.

Okay, she felt somewhat embarrassed for needing medicine because her brain hated her for not handling change as easily as others—among other things. The shame wasn’t in what others would think, but more so that she felt defective. People took medicine for a myriad of reasons, both for physical limitations and mental, but she didn’t want something to be wrong with her.

“You’re thinking really hard there,” Aiden said, a lazy smile hooking the corner of his mouth when she turned her attention to him.

“It’s for depression,” she said. Her mouth parted in response to how at ease with him she felt saying the words. His smile disarmed her. She was getting too comfortable with him. That can’t happen, she reminded herself. She didn’t fit in his high-class world. She stuffed the empty biscuit paper in the bag.

“Depression?” His eyes narrowed and the muscles in his jaw tightened.

Why did he seem angry? She did nothing wrong. It wasn’t her fault the chemicals in her brain acted out.

Before she could do anything like snap at him for being mad at her for something she couldn’t control, he surprised her by grabbing her by both arms and turning her toward him.

His eyes softened when she looked up at him. “Is it because of the asshole following you around?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Then why? I don’t understand.”