“It’s okay,” I mumble, walking up to the table.

“You hungry?” he asks, and it throws me off. Hungry? We don’t really do the non-sex stuff, like eating together and hanging out. But the idea immediately gives me a small thrill.

“Yes,” I answer, sitting at the table opposite him. When he looks up, he aims a cold, hard stare on my face, and it’s a chilling feeling, being under his gaze, but he eventually softens, his lips peeling back at the corners for a small smirk that creates tiny creases in his eyes.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile.

Then, he’s up and walking to the kitchen. “You like steak?”

“Of course,” I answer.

Every once in a while he glances back at me while he cooks, and I melt in his suddenly softer demeanor. He’s better today, and maybe it had something to do with what happened last night. Or maybe it was something else. Or someone else.

Finally, he puts a plate in front of me, and it’s nice to eat with someone like this. Almost like a date. Still he doesn’t say much, but the steak is delicious, paired with steamed vegetables and rice. I have to say I’m surprised. I didn’t expect Rafe to be the kind of guy who could cook.

“This is delicious. Thank you,” I say, savoring the last bite of medium rare steak.

After the meal is done, we settle on the couch, and he turns on the big screen TV in his living room. I don’t even own a TV, so it’s nice to recline on the couch next to him.

“What do you want to watch?” he asks, scrolling through Netflix.

“I have no clue what’s even out. You pick.”

He groans, and I laugh. It can’t be easy to pick a movie for a woman when you never have company, but he settles on the latest superhero flick, which keeps enough of my attention so that when I lie back on his couch, he lifts my legs onto his lap, rubbing up to my thigh, and I barely notice. I almost don’t catch when toward the end of the movie, his hand starts to slide higher.

My belly lights up with sparks when my eyes meet his, and there’s hunger in his gaze.

“We don’t have to do anything,” I say, and I don’t know why those words come out of my mouth. I keep my hands resting above my head on the arm of the couch.

“I want to,” he answers, reaching for the button of my jeans, and for a moment, I consider letting him, but I’m afraid of falling into this pattern. And it’s insane of me to complain about this—a man who only wants to please me, but this doesn’t help him at all. I want him to feel what I feel, and it’s just not the same for me if I know he’s struggling. I can still imagine the pain he was in last night.