Guilt washes through me.
My gaze drops to the floor. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Eli hooks a finger under my chin, tipping my face up to his. “I just want you safe, Angel.”
He threads his hand through mine again. We exit the station and begin the walk to his house.
A hooded figure follows at a distance the entire way. My stomach knots. Is that the same person from the tube?
When we reach his door, the figure simply keeps walking, not even glancing our way.
God, Em. Not everyone is out to get you.They were probably just going the same direction.
I push the anxiety down, hiding it from Eli. No need to worry him over a coincidence.
“How about I cook tonight?” I offer.
Eli gives me a small tilt of his head, lips pursed like he’s trying not to smile. Then he nods. “That would be nice, Angel.”
In the kitchen, I rummage through his cupboards until I find everything I need for moussaka.
I sauté the aubergine while the sauce simmers, then whisk together the béchamel.
All the while, Eli watches from the table, hands behind his head. He tries to help, but I refuse—I want to do something for him. I don’t fully understand why. Maybe because he’s done so much for me. Maybe because it feels like repayment. Before I leave… eventually.
When the dish is ready for the oven, Eli stands and grabs two wine glasses. “Does Xinomavro work for you?”
My chest softens. “You got me Greek wine?”
He shrugs. “I know how much you love Greek food—I stocked up on wine to go with it.”
“Xinomavro is perfect with this. Thank you.”
He pours the wine, and we sit while the moussaka bakes.
“Did you always want to be a therapist?” he asks suddenly.
“I… no.” I laugh under my breath. “I actually wanted to be a researcher.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course you did. You love your books.”
I flick his bicep—regretting it immediately when my finger meets solid rock. “When I did my psychology undergrad, I planned on doing my master’s, then a doctorate, and going into clinical research.”
Eli tilts his head, focused entirely on me. “What changed?”
It’s strange, having someone listen like this. Really listen. Not the way Gianna did—calculating, self-interested. Eli listens like my words matter.
I breathe in. Exhale.
“You know Carina?”
It’s a rhetorical question. Eli indicates for me to continue.
“I was doing work experience during the first year of my doctorate. I already had a master’s in psychotherapy and counselling, so I was licensed to practise, but research was still the plan. I wasn’t much older than her—she was maybe twenty-one when she finally sought help. I must’ve been twenty-five?”Damn, has it really been ten years?
Eli doesn’t interrupt. Just waits—patient, intent.
“She was one of my first patients. I’d shadowed counsellors before, but she was one of the first assigned solely to me. No one realised how deep her trauma ran. If they had, someonemore experienced would’ve taken her.”