Page 47 of Red Zone
He shrugs, still rearranging boxes like it’s nothing. “One of my old foster brothers had OCD. His looked different than yours—his thing was numbers. Everything had to be even. Fours and eights and twelves. We couldn’t microwave anything unless it ended in double zero’s or thirty or he’d freak out.”
He pauses, straightens the last row of cans, then turns to face me. His expression is calm. Steady.
Not pitying—just present.
“I used to get so annoyed,” he says, a wry twist to his lips. “But one night, he told me that if he didn’t follow the rules in his head, he thought something bad would happen to the people he cared about. Like it was his job to hold the world together.”
My throat tightens.
Carter rests his elbows on the counter, watching me. “You don’t look crazy to me, Lyla. You look like someone who’s trying really fucking hard to hold it together. And I get that.”
The air leaves my lungs in a slow, aching breath. I grip the edge of the counter, staring down at my bare feet on the tile.
“You don’t talk about that stuff much,” I murmur. “The foster care part.”
He shrugs again, more guarded this time. “Most people don’t ask.”
I glance up at him. “I’m not most people.”
He smirks faintly. “Yeah. I got that.”
The silence stretches, but it’s not heavy now. Not tense. Just…full.
Full of things neither of us are used to saying out loud or admitting.
I shift closer to him without really thinking. “What happened to him? Your foster brother.”
“Got adopted eventually. A really good family. I lost touch, but I always hoped he was okay.”
As the silence stretches and the adrenaline finally starts to drain from my limbs, a creeping sense of embarrassment curls into my stomach.
This was supposed to be…not this.
I glance over at him, then quickly away. “You know, I did technically text you for a booty call. And instead, you’re now intimately familiar with my pantry.”
Carter lets out a low laugh, that cocky dimple making another appearance. “Not the wild night I had in mind, but honestly? Still kinda hot.”
I shoot him a flat look, and he smirks.
“I mean, it’s organized. Labels out. Color-coded. Arousing, really.”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. “God, kill me now.”
He bumps my knee with his. “Hey. If you want a rain check, I’m a very flexible guy.”
I glance at him, cheeks warm, but there’s no pressure in his voice. No smug expectation.
Just…patience. Humor. Ease.
It disarms me completely.
I sit up straighter and say, “You want ice cream?”
His eyebrows lift. “Are you offering me a booty-call rain checkanddessert?”
But I’m already headed toward the kitchen, pulling open the freezer door with a grin.
And then I freeze.
