A slow, creeping silence filled with way too much tension and not nearly enough backup.
I turned back to Kieran, who looked disturbingly pleased with himself.
He hadn't moved from the kitchen, still leaning against the counter like he owned the damn place. But now that we were alone, I noticed it.
The way he braced one hand casually against the counter… but it was a little too deliberate. How he shifted ever so slightly like he was easing pressure off one side of his body. And when he reached for the fridge? A barely-there wince, the kind someone really good at hiding pain would try to pass off as nothing.
"Don't even say it," I warned.
He held up his hands in mock innocence. "Wasn't gonna. But I am flattered they think you're into me."
"Shut up! And you're overdoing it," I added quietly, biting my lip before I could stop myself.
He looked over his shoulder, smirking. "What, walking to your kitchen? Looking for something edible? I'm not made of glass, princess."
"No, but you're also not Wolverine."
He snorted, setting a bowl down. "Tell that to the bullet."
"Bullet that nearly tore your side open," I hissed. "You should be resting."
His grin stretched wider. "You offering to tuck me in?"
I threw the spoon Kyle tried to balance on his nose earlier at him. It hit his chest, bounced off, and clattered to the floor. He didn't flinch, until he turned to grab it and I caught the sharp little grimace that flickered across his face.
Busted.
I folded my arms. "You're not fooling anyone."
"I fooled you long enough to let us be roomates officially."
"That was before I realized you're a stubborn maniac who's one bad stretch away from opening a wound and dying on my rug."
He wiggled his brows. "Wouldn't be the worst place I've bled out."
"Kieran—"
He walked over then, slower than usual, but with that same calculated prowl, like even limping slightly was an art. And despite everything, despite the ache that probably pulsed behind that cocky smirk, he still managed to loom.
"I'm fine, Kina," he murmured, standing just a breath too close. I could smell him, something, sweat, faint cigarette, citrus, something warm and sinful. "I've had worse. You can stop worrying."
I gave him the hardest glare I could muster, which probably looked more like a squinting toddler than anything intimidating. "Just…don't touch anything. Don't flirt. And stay on your half of the apartment."
"Define half again," he said, taking another step toward me.
"NOPE." I stumbled backwards and marched past him to my room, muttering curses under my breath as I slammed the door behind me.
This was going to be a disaster.
A hundred thousand-dollars disaster.
And he smelled really good, which felt like a personal attack.
I didn't know how long but I paced my room like a lunatic, fingers tangled in my hair and capitalism screaming in my ears. It's his money. He paid. How did he even have such an amount? Was he a trafficker? Kina you brought a trafficker home. Or worse a serial killer.
You let him sleep on the couch for ten whole days like a wounded stray. I mean, he was a wounded stray. But now he was a very well-compensated wounded stray, and the guilt was gnawing at me like a tax audit.
He got shot. For whatever reason that definitely didn't scream danger!
And here I was guarding my bed like it was some sacred virgin offering. I wasn't even being nice to him properly. Maybe he was waiting for me to let my guard down and take my organs. Maybe if was nice to him he could reconsider. It's just a mattress. Not my soul. Besides, it's only a few more days till the new one comes.
Right?
Ah that's right, I'll have to make an order. It should be much bigger than the last.
And he'll be better by the time it arrives. When it does, I'll drive him back to the couch. And things might go back to normal a little. Hopefully. Actually I didn't think that was even possible anymore.
I groaned into my pillow before marching out. Decision made. Bed. Offered. No take-backs. No regret. Probably.
I almost burnt a hole as I stared at the couch.
Or maybe it was the man stretched out on it, legs spread like he owned the apartment, half-open t-shirt teasing a bandaged torso and way too many distracting collarbones for someone recovering from being shot.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered.
Kieran didn't even look up from the crime documentary he was half-watching, half-ignoring. "Hmm?"
"The bed," I said, a little louder. "Take it."
His head tilted slowly. "You trying to get rid of me already, sweetheart?"
I rolled my eyes. "I'm saying you need it more than I do. You're still healing, and I—" I hesitated. "—I'll sleep on the couch until I get a new bed. It's only a few more days."
He actually paused the TV. "Let me get this straight. The woman who threatened to kick me out hours ago is now offering me her bed?"
I crossed my arms. "Don't make it weird. I just feel bad, okay? You're recovering. And you gave me…" My mouth dried a little. "…a stupid amount of money. I can't exactly let you rot on a couch like some discount mob Santa Claus. Also if you're planning to do something to me maybe you might reconsider?"
He grinned, slow and lethal. "Aww. You care."
"I do not care. I'm just being polite."
His gaze turned serious for second.
"Look... despite getting a gun pressed to your head, you dragged me to your place and took care of me… I won't touch you unless you give me a reason to princess." They softened back. "Also I thought I wasn't allowed to intrude."
"It's not intruding if I'm letting you."
"Sure I won't stumble across another lacey little—"
"Wait." I flushed so hard I could've lit the room without electricity. "Let me double check!"
I darted to my room, ransacking my bed and laundry basket like I was defusing a bomb, cursing my entire existence. I swear if he saw another pair of panties...
When I came back out, triumphant and flustered, he was… back on his documentary.
Seriously?
"Kieran."
He didn't even look at me. "What."
"I told you to take the bed."
"And I told you to leave me alone, woman. Who knew money could make you this sympathetic? Should I be worried?"
"You're impossible." I marched over and grabbed his arm. "Get up."
He didn't budge.
"Get. Up."
His bicep flexed beneath my hand, and in one impossibly smooth move, he pulled me forward and I—landed.
Right on top of him.
Chest. Breath. Heat. And that smirk.
Our faces were so close I could see the faint scar above his eyebrow. His breath brushed my cheek. His heart was right there, strong and steady beneath me while mine was doing the tango.
"Well," he murmured, voice a low thread of amusement, "if this is your way of convincing me, it's pretty effective."
I scrambled off him like I'd been burned. "Y-You're disgusting."
"And you're blushing."
"I'm not—!" I stopped. "F-fine! If you want to reject my kindness, that's your problem." I Gave him a final withering glare. "I'm going to bed. Alone. Don't touch anything."
"Don't touch anything?" he echoed, laughing now. "After you touched me?"
"Shut up."
He called out after me as I shut my door, "Sweet dreams, princess."
And all I could think was why the hell did I ever let him in my apartment.
And worse, why did a part of me… not hate the way his heartbeat felt under my palm.