Page 50 of Sweet Sinners
Like he knows exactly what I need, exactly what will lift my mood. Like he understands something about me I don’t even understand myself.
TheTteokbokkiis no exception—cheesy, hearty, with just the right kick of spice. It’s addictive. Even as the heat burns my lips, even as my nose turns pink from the spice, I want more. Each bite lingers, stretching the moment, the comfort, the warmth.
I pick up a thick rice cake, dragging it through the sauce before bringing it to my lips. It hovers there for a second, the anticipationmaking my stomach tighten. Then I draw it in, savoring the molten cheese inside, letting out a quiet, appreciative sigh before swallowing.
The second the sound leaves me, Connor’s gaze snaps to my mouth.
It’s subtle, just a flicker, a moment of hesitation, but I see it. The way his throat bobs as he swallows. The way his jaw tightens just a fraction before he schools his expression.
Oh.
Something flickers in my stomach, hot and restless.
"You like it?" he asks, his voice rougher than before, like he had to clear it first.
I swallow, pushing past the tension curling between us. "It’s perfect," I say, my voice softer than I mean for it to be. "I couldn’t imagine a better way to start the week."
That gets me a small, almost hesitant smile. One that flickers, just barely there, like it’s unfamiliar now.
And it is.
The carefree boy I remember, the one who smirked without restraint, who laughed easily, who teased me just to get a reaction, that boy isn’t here anymore.
Connor was always cocky, always reckless, but there was a lightness to him back then. Now, it’s like every word is weighed, every movement calculated, every expression filtered through years of something I can’t touch. Something I wasn't there for.
Prison didn’t just change him.
It carved him into someone else.
Someone sharper.
Someone who watches me a little too closely.
And for the first time, I realize—
I’m watching him right back.
As Connor stretches his legs beneath the table, his foot brushes against mine—just a fleeting touch, but enough to pull me from my meal. I glance up, realizing he hasn't gone for seconds. Considering I'm nearly done with my second heaping plate, something flickers in me.
"You should eat more," I say, nudging him gently.
He arches an eyebrow, that hint of his old humor glinting in his eyes. "Are you critiquing my eating habits now?"
"You made it, Connor. It stands to reason you should be enjoying it at least as much as I am," I grumble, setting my fork down with a soft clatter.
I've always been methodical about how I eat—paced, organized, controlled. My father drilled into me that control is paramount, that chaos leads to mistakes. But sitting here, full and warm from the meal, I ignore the urge to stop just because I've met some arbitrary limit in my head.
"Finish your plate," Connor insists, light but firm. "I'll take it personally if you don’t."
Before I can argue, he scoops more onto his own plate, like he’s trying to coax me into eating more by doing the same. It's annoyingly effective. By the time I swallow the last bite, I groan, letting my head tip back against the chair. "I’m so full."
His mouth quirks in amusement. "That good?"
I could get used to that look on his face. The rare, easy smile. The way his sharp edges smooth just enough to remind me of the boy I used to know.
"If there's any left, I’m taking it to work tomorrow. And I’ll be bragging about how good it is." I stretch my arms above my head before dropping them to my lap. "Seriously, it beats most restaurants I've been to."
Connor holds my gaze for a beat too long, and something shifts in the air between us.
