Chapter 232: Penny
I didn’t want to leave the apartment.
Boomer didn’t ask.
He told me. Flat out. In that quiet, grounded voice that doesn’t sound like a demand until I realize I’m doing exactly what he wide banded te doen clothes, gave me twenty minutes, and announced, “We’re getting food. Real food. Food that I didn’t burn.”
Not that I fought him too hard.
And now… I’m standing under the string lights of this downtown side street, outside a poke bowl place that smells like citrus and sesame, wondering how in the world I ended up here with a guy who makes surviving a nightmare feel like something I don’t have to carry on my own.
He pushes the glass door open for me, hand at the small of my back like it’s instinct. Maybe it is for him – the protector gene or whatever. But is still makes my spine straighten a little. Makes me aware of him in a way I wasn’t expecting tonight.
Inside, it’s warm and colorful and smells like rice vinegar and mango. Indie music hums in the background and soft chatter fills the space. The whole plate feels like a break in the timeline a glitch in the chaos of the last two days.
–
“Have you ever built a poke bowl before?” Boomer asks as we approach the long glass counter.
“No,” I admit, scanning the rows of tiny dishes, toppings, sauces, and scoops. “But I’ve seen TikToks. Does that count?”
He huffs a laugh and grabs a tray. “You’re in good hands, princess.”
The nickname doesn’t hit me the same way it does when Asher says it. It’s lighter. Like a joke. A little teasing. It’s nice, but it’s not Asher nice.
Boomer nudges me with his elbow. “First step – rice or greens. Go.”
“Rice,” I say automatically.
He grins. “Safe choice. Basic.”
I squint at him. “Excuse me?”
He winks and starts his own bowl with greens.
I follow the line, scooping tuna into my container. Boomer watches me like he’s waiting to veto something. When I reach for spicy mayo, he makes a dramatic gasp.
“Already? We’re barely past base toppings.”
“I like spicy mayo!”
“You can’t peak too early.” He grabs a little spoon and dips it into some sort of bright orange sauce. “Here. Taste this instead.”
I lean forward – and he just holds the spoon up to my lips.
Like it’s normal. Like we’ve done this a hundred times.
I pause, but his hand stays steady, eyes watching mine. I taste it.
Sweet. Salty. Fire.
“Oh my God,” I say through a cough. “What is that?”
“Ghost pepper aioli,” he says, barely holding in a smile. “They only serve it to people who can handle it.”
“You did that on purpose,” I wheeze, swatting at him
“Maybe,” He flicks my elbers. “Adds character.”
go to retaliate by putting pickled ginger in his bowl, but he sidesteps it like he’s done this dances within truses.
Every minute with him feels like it shouldn’t work – like it’s too easy, too light, too formy after everything. But estyn, it does
He watches me pile my toppings with approval and the occasional inide comment always followed by a grin that makes his dimple park must. 2 and point. I catch him taking something from the back corner of the toppings bar.
*What’s that?” I ask, trying to peek.
“Trade secret,” he says. “Only for people who survive major trauma.”
“Boomer,” I groan, laughing. “What is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just drops a tiny scoop of it in my bowl and gives me this smug look like he just won the lottery. “Trust me.”
I roll my eyes but dig in once we’re seated. The place is mostly empty now – a weekday lull, soft and calm.
We eat mostly in silence for a few minutes, but it’s not awkward. It’s… nice. He eats like someone who’s always been on the go. Fast but methodical But be keeps slowing down every time I speak, like whatever I’m saying is more important than his next bite.
“You’ve got sesame on your cheek,” he says, motioning with his spoon.
I swipe at the wrong side.
He reaches out and brushes it away for me, thumb warm against my skin.
My breath catches not because of him. Not like that. It’s just… unexpected. Gentle. It feels like being wrapped in a safety net I didn’t even know I needed.
Boomer pulls back, clearing his throat. “So… anything you want to do after?”
“Nope,” I say. “Unless dessert is on the table.”
He grins. “When is it not?”
“Um… never.”
He nods slowly, and then his eyes drop back to my bowl. “You didn’t finish the surprise topping.”
I eye it suspiciously. “Is it going to destroy my sinuses again?”
“No. Swear on my honor.”
I take a bite. Sweet. Tart. Crunchy. And kind of perfect.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Candied pineapple. You’re welcome.”
I snort. “That’s cheating. That’s not a secret topping.”
“It is when they keep it behind the counter for regulars.” He winks again, and I hate how it makes me smile.
Not because I don’t want to smile. But because it feels like my heart is still fractured down the middle – and somehow, he keeps taping it back together
finish the last bite of my bowl and sit back. He watches me, eyes half–lidded, like he’s studying something he can’t figure out, I think maybe I’ve got tire
on my nose or something, but he just shakes his head, smile barely there.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
He chuckles. “Only when it involves you.”
I pretend not to hear that. Pretend not to feel the warmth in my chest as I toss my napkin in the trash and follow him out the door. The night air is cold,
easy to imagine this as something… normal.. but not too cold. His arm brushes mine as we walk, and it’s almost to
Something people do when they’re okay.
I’m not okay. Not fully.
But with him?
I’m something close to it.
