Cyan
The sink was running.
Nick stood with his back to me, the water rushing against ceramic while he rinsed the bowls.
He moved with a quiet, careful economy, every reach, every turn of his wrists in control, like he was operating on the porcelain instead of just washing off soup broth.
I stayed on the high stool at the counter, resting my chin in my hand and letting my gaze linger on his shoulders.
He was so easy to read it was almost funny.
The stiff line of his spine told me everything he was trying not to say out loud. He thought he was in total control.
He thought because he had dragged me to his apartment, made me eat soup, and laid down his firm rules about 'never again', he had somehow taken the upper hand.
I smiled, letting the air out of my nose in a soft breath.
When Etienne and the rest of them had made that stupid bet back at the lounge, after I'd talk shit about the cold, untouchable doctor who never looked twice at anyone, I knew he'd show up.
