Page 36 of Captured Heart

I hand him a bowl and a set of chopsticks, but he opts for a spoon instead. “I didn’t goall out. It’s just lunch. You eat, don’t you?”

“Not like this. Not in years.”

We sit at the small dining table in the corner of the kitchen. The table isn’t large enough to keep our knees from bumping, and every accidental touch makes my pulse skitter.

“Years?” I ask, making an active effort to focus on the conversation instead of the heat of his thighs against mine. “What have you been eating?”

He shrugs, picking up his spoon with a casualness that doesn’t quite match the way he looks at the food, like it’s some kind of luxury. “Slop, mostly. Mystery meat. Overcooked peas. Instant ramen on a good day.”

I giggle. “Sounds like prison food.”

Amusement twinkles in his eyes, but he still doesn’t smile. “It’sexactlylike prison food.”

“Well, I guess most young bachelors live on slop because it’s easier than learning how to cook.” After the way he ran off on Thursday, I’m cautious about asking my next question. “Did...did your mom never teach you?”

“Nah, she never got the chance.” His jaw clenches, and I see a brief moment of pain before he shakes his head. “She was working all the time until she got sick...and then I had to start working to pay the bills. It was just never a priority.”

That was more well-received than I expected. He didn’t stand up and bolt for the door, so that must be a good sign. But he says nothing further, and I take that as my cue to drop the conversation. For a few moments, he’s silent, not even looking up at me.

Instead, he remains fixated on his bowl, and his expression changes, becoming more appreciative. So appreciative, in fact, that I feel compelled to watch him take his first bite. The way his shoulders relax and his eyes close briefly tells me everything.

“This is... really good,” he says.

“Thank you.” Warmth spreads through me, and I silently pray that it doesn’t show on my cheeks. “I’m glad you like it.”

We chat as we eat, and I realize Alex is very easy company. The conversation flows effortlessly. Yes, I do most of the talking, but he asks questions and listens to every word I say. I’ve never spoken to anyone who was so engaged in the conversation. We finished eating a while ago, and we’re still not showing any signs of slowing down.

He’s still resistant to answering questions, though. Every time I ask about his childhood or anything too personal, he gives a short, curt answer, then swiftly changes the subject back to me. I’ve accepted that he’s a very private person, so I don’t push for too much and just keep my questions at surface level.

“So, what’s your most prized possession?”

He shrugs. “I don’t have one.”

“Really? Not even a comic book or a baseball card you had when you were growing up?”

“No. Nothing. Things are just things, and they can be taken away at any time, so I don’t get attached to them.”

“That’s such a cold, disjointed way of looking at the world. It’s sad that you don’t—”

He leans back in his chair, propping his ankle up on his thigh. “You wouldn’t understand because you’re sentimental about every goddamn thing.”

I’m slightly offended by his crass tone. It’s almost like he thinks I’m stupid for thinking that way. “And you think that’s foolish?”

“The termsentimental foolexists for a reason.”

“Well, that’s just a difference of opinion. Things arenotjust things. When someone puts their love into something, then that thing carries that love forever. It somehow immortalizes that person. Like this house...” I wave my hand around the kitchen. “My grandparents put so much love into this house. They built the bookshelves in the living room and the cupboards in this kitchen. My dad and aunt’s heights are still etched in the doorframes of their rooms. This house still carries that love, and I feel it every time I walk in the door.”

He’s silent for a good few minutes, studying me intently. “You know, you’re not what I was expecting,” he says softly. “There’s something so...wholesome about you...like a warmth I haven’t felt in a long time. I’ve never met someone like you, and I don’t...I don’t know how...” He runs a heavy hand down his face, visibly uncomfortable. “Fuck, it’s so disarming.”

I giggle because I’ve never met anyone like him, either. He’s so defensive all the time. “And you need to be...armed?”

“Yeah, I do.” He shifts, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. “Every second of every day. And you’re...sort of messing that up.”

His expression has not changed one iota, and despite his rough tone, I detect sincerity, even a hint of tenderness. It’s so hard to read because I don’t know if he’s upset or if that’s his way of flirting with me. Maybe I should test the waters a little bit.

“Sounds like you’re going soft,” I tease, feigning disappointment.

“I’m not.”

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