“Hardly.” I waved my hand around, gesturing to the nail polish remover and my cup of hot water with honey. “I was enjoying having a night in. Pedicure, long shower. All that.”

He sat down on my chair, where he usually did, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tops of his knees.

“That sounds nice. Very unlike you, but nice. Am I crashing?”

I shook my head and crossed my arms over my chest, remembering again how sheer the fabric was that I had on.

“Did you eat already?” he asked me.

I shook my head again, causing some of my hair to come loose. My hair was nearly dry, wavy from the braid, and definitely wild. I ran my hands over the strands. Yep. Definitely frizzy. I sat down on the floor and reached for a pillow from the couch to put on my lap. “I don’t really have much in the fridge. Like borderline nothing. I need to go to the commissary again but I haven’t had the time. I didn’t get enough of the things I needed when we were there. I’m working on a grocery list for my next day off.”

I was rambling again. My explanation was long, but as usual Kael didn’t seem to mind.

“Are you hungry?” he asked me, clearly moving the conversation on.

I shrugged. I wasn’t, really, until he asked, and it reminded me that the only thing I had eaten today was a piece of toast on my walk to work.

“I am,” Kael added.

Was he offering to have dinner with me? I didn’t want to chance totally misreading this whole thing. I didn’t say anything and continued to let him lead. After about a minute, the silence between us settled. My gaze strayed toward the floor, staring at the spot where the carpet met the dark wood.

He spoke first. “We can order food. I’ll open Postmates.”

I somehow knew he wouldn’t ask me why I called him back to my house. Drama-free. No more kissing. No more boundary-crossing. He will order us dinner and act like nothing happened. I studied him as he scrolled on his phone, dissecting him the way I did everyone. He was hard to break down; he was much, much harder to understand than most people. He wasn’t simple, but he wasn’t messy. He was calm in that way, where I was tripping over words and thoughts.

“Italian or Indian?” he asked.

“Is the Italian a chain restaurant or family-owned?” I wanted something that was made with love and thought. That was the kind of meal I needed now for comfort.

He smiled a little. “It’s Olive Garden.”

“Indian, please. I can add my order and Venmo you for it if that’s cool?”