[Kendall]
I sit at the table, absently watching Camden as he moves around the kitchen. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the sizzle of onions in the pan, is oddly calming.
“I never learned to cook,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “My father did all the cooking.”
Camden glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Can’t boil water?” he asks, teasing.
I huff, half-laughing, half-defensive. “I can make boxed stuff,” I argue.
He groans dramatically. “Your Italian ancestors must be rolling around in their graves when you say that.”
I laugh lightly, but it’s tinged with something sad, something nostalgic. “Maybe.”
Camden’s gaze drifts over the living room, where my clothes are scattered across the floor. His mouth quirks into a half-smile as he eyes the mess.
“You don’t clean, either?”
I pout, the teasing jab cutting deeper than I care to admit. “I do, just haven’t gotten around to it,” I say, trying to brush it off with a shrug. “My legs still don’t work.”
He grins, a soft, teasing smile that tugs at my heart. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
But then his expression shifts, and there’s something serious behind his gaze. “I do want you to pack up all your things, keep it in one of those duffels. You never know when we’re going to have to bug out of here.”
The words hit me like a punch in the gut, and I swallow, trying to push the anxiety rising in my chest back down.
“Do you think he’s still looking for us?”
Camden’s voice softens as he answers, but the tension in his tone is palpable. “I need to call Dante,” he says, his words heavy with unspoken meaning. “Watch that for me. Just stir every few moments.”
I nod, though my mind is already racing. I hear Camden’s footsteps as he walks out to the terrace, the faint crackle of his phone pressing into the silence of the apartment. His voice is low, almost inaudible, but I can hear the strain in it.
“Any news?” he asks, the words clipped.
I try not to listen, focusing instead on the warmth of the tomato sauce as I stir. The smell fills the kitchen-onions, garlic, something rich and comforting. Camden’s cooking is a far cry from my idea of dinner, but somehow it feels like the closest thing to normalcy I’ve had in days.
When he steps back into the kitchen, his face is unreadable, a mask of calm that doesn’t fool me for a second.
“What’s up?” I ask, my voice unsteady, a knot forming in my stomach.
He doesn’t respond right away, his hands busy straining the pasta into the colander. The clinking sound fills the space between us.
“Everything’s okay,” he says, but his eyes betray the lie.
“Camden,” I say, my voice a little sharper than I intend. “Don’t lie to me.”
He exhales deeply, looking at me with a faint, weary smile. “They haven’t found Marco yet. Angelo and Dante have been working together to find him, but no news yet. They found his car abandoned nearby the old safehouse. He was the one following us.”
The air seems to shift, thick with the weight of his words. My stomach twists, cold fear rising, and I find myself shivering despite the warmth of the room.
I nod stiffly, swallowing the knot in my throat. “He doesn’t know where this one is,” I say flatly, the hope in my voice forced, a lie I tell myself to feel some kind of control.
“He doesn’t,” Camden assures me, though his eyes don’t quite meet mine as he pours the sauce over the pasta. The sound of it-thick, creamy, rich-feels wrong in my ears. Everything feels wrong.
We sit down to eat, but the food tastes like cardboard in my mouth. My thoughts are miles away, tangled in worry and dread, and I know, deep down, that sleep tonight will bring nothing but nightmares.
Camden’s presence beside me, his usual warmth, does little to calm the storm inside me. I try to focus on something else, on him, on the mundane chatter about the pool and the things we’ve bought. Anything to keep the fear at bay.
But then, I ask, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“Camden,” I start, unsure. He looks up at me, eyes soft and curious, waiting. “Do you…” But I can’t finish the sentence. The vulnerability clings to me like a weight. What if he says no? What if he says yes? I shake my head, trying to dismiss the thought. “Never mind.”
He tilts his head, brow furrowed. “What is it, principessa?”
I hesitate. The words feel like they might choke me. But they need to come out.