I slip in the back door of the Anarchy Immortal Café, throw my bag in my locker, and cinch the apron around my back. It sags on my shrinking frame, and I cringe, wondering how much longer I can get away with this before Dad starts force-feeding me again.

It just always comes up when I have my nightmares, easier to not eat at all. I wish I could. I crave it; I just know it'll never stay down.

"Hey Reeciecup," an arm comes down around my shoulders, pulls my tiny frame into a firm chest smelling of coffee beans and pastries. "How were your classes?" Dad asks, kissing my forehead.

I return the hug, press my cheek into his apron, ignore the bursts of flour that puff between us. "Fine, just glad it's Friday," I mutter, smiling up at him as best I can.

Dad pats my shoulder, frowns slightly, but says nothing. "Your mom comes home in a week."

I wrinkle my nose and pull away, tugging on the sleeves of my hoodie self-consciously. "Great, how long this time? Two, three days?" I grit, refusing to meet his eyes.

Dad expels a sigh and puts his hand on the small of my back. He ushers us toward the front of the café, where Kaila is making a drink behind the counter. "Just come over for dinner, will you?" He pleads, voice soft and imploring.

I cross my arms, press my lips together.

How Dad stays with her will never cease to amaze me. She's gone for weeks at a time, home for a handful of days, and barely calls in between. She's a floating flight attendant that caters only to the rich who own private planes and extravagant jets. According to her, she's constantly jumping from one plane to the next, one client after another. But we've seen the credit card charges, the expensive hotels she stays in, the company she keeps. Dad knows she's stepping out, chooses to give her leeway.

I, however, resent her absence and the treatment she forces on him. How flippant she was when the truth of my relationship came out. Her words still haunt me, punch holes in my confidence when I least expect it. You were asking for it, shouldn't have tempted him.

"I don't know, maybe, I have homework." I deflect, spare him the smallest of glances.

Dad looks defeated, but nods, his gaze understanding.

"If you can, Reeciecup," he squeezes my arm, jaw clenching at the disturbing way his hand encircles my bicep a little too much. "Have you eaten dinner yet? I'll make you a sandwich," he averts his gaze, turns to make the food before I can protest. I concede, let him fuss, hope it's all he'll do.

"Reecie!" Kaila exclaims as I round the counter. "There you are. Will you take this to that customer over there?" She presses a mug into one hand, a bag of ice in the other. "And this, he looks a little rough." Her eyes carry a mischievous glint.

"Fine." I trudge toward the reclined figure, already bored with the night ahead. Then I see who he is; notice the roughness of his knuckles, the slight swelling on his jawline, and realize why Kaila gave me ice. My stomach does a weird flip, somewhere between arousal and anger.

"Here." I thrust the drink and bag into his hands.

"Merci beacoup." Maybe it's the bruises, but when he smiles at me this time, it seems unguarded. Without any sardonic pretense.

I bite the inside of my cheek, refuse to blush.

I think of the countless messages he's sent me. They weren't what I expected. Pressure to meet up? Sure. Maybe a dick-pic? Wouldn't put it past him.

But no. This bastard sends me cute fur babies with snarky sayings. Worse, I actually like the damn things.

"I have no idea what that means," I rebuff, arms crossing over my chest.

"It's my way of saying thank you." He sits up with a low groan like the simple act is painful. Then he gestures for me to sit in the chaise chair beside him.

I scowl, glancing pointedly at the counter. "You realize I don't come here just for your benefit, right? I work here."

The chill in my tone only widens his smile more, hazel gaze full of laughter. "I'm sure Kaila won't mind."

I glare, "I'm sure she will."

Then Dad reappears, a plate and a glass of water in his hands. "Here, Reecie," he looks around at the quiet café and back at me, "sit and eat. We're not busy right now."

I balk, take the plate, spare a look at Bas's triumphant expression.

Dammit.

"No, I'm fine, I can—"

"She can sit with me," Bas cuts me off, again pats the space beside him.

Dad steers me toward the seat. I suppress the urge to smack both of them. Actually—scratch that—Bas looks like he might enjoy it too much.

"But—"

"No, Reecie," Dad's look silences me, "You need to eat."

I sag, grumble snide comments under my breath as Dad walks away. Kaila gives me a thumbs-up when I catch her gaze.

"I don't know how, but you three set me up," I bite out, dropping the plate in my lap angrily.

Bas guffaws and presses the ice to his jaw. "I assure you, Reecie, that we did no such thing. I didn't even know when you'd be here."

"But you knew I'd be here at some point," I argue, taking a small bite of the sandwich when Dad throws me a look. "And those two will do everything short of handcuffing me to you if it means I'll get in some 'healthy human interaction.'" I air quote, remembering when my psychiatrist said those words to Dad, who later repeated them to Kaila. Then, the two started conspiring.

Those three bitter words are the reason for every blind date Kaila's sprung on me. Every shove Dad's given me to go out, try new things, experience college life. Normal dads try to stop their daughters from partying. Mine encourages it.

"I could get behind some handcuffing." Bas taunts.

I roll my eyes dramatically. "You look like you need to be handcuffed."

"You flirting with me, Reece?" He teases.

I grit down, cast my eyes back to my sandwich. You should have known better. "No."

Bas, thankfully, doesn't press. Taking a sip of his drink, he chuckles. "I don't think I'm the right person for 'healthy human interaction' anyway."

I scowl and continue to nibble half-heartedly on the sandwich.

"Doesn't matter; you're a person." I supply, drink some water, and relax into the chair while taking a closer look at Bas's appearance.

He's haggard, splotchy with red marks that will bloom into bruises. There's some swelling, but not much. I watch him shift the ice against his chest through his t-shirt, wonder how much further the injuries go.

"Why do you look so crappy?"

"Damn, girl," he laughs. "You know how to kick a guy when he's down."

I chew through my body's attempt at a smile. "Seriously. You owe someone money or something?"

Bas raises a pierced brow, looks at me like I've grown another head. "You don't watch much hockey, do you?"

I affect an uninterested pose. "Can't say I do."

He's not the least bit troubled by the slight. "I got into a fight with another player." He shrugs, the motion making his eyes tighten, but other than that, there's no admittance of discomfort.

I shift, feeling my stomach roil. "I don't care to watch people beat up on one another for sport," my defense is sharp, heated with emotion.

Bas tilts his head. "It's hockey. Part of the sport is being antagonistic." He lowers the ice pack to his hands, switches between the bruised knuckles. "Anyway, it's not like it was without prompting; jackass gave me this," Bas points at the red-purple shadowing along his jaw.

I wrinkle my nose, breathe in and out, take another bite of my sandwich to calm my nerves. "So, you only fight on the ice?"

Bas bites his lip, debates answering. "Mostly on the ice." He glances at Kaila and my Dad, "The Frank guy that was in here earlier, though, he was getting touchy with Kaila. I nearly decked him too."

The tangle of discomfort ebbs a little, my hostility toward Bas dissipating slightly. "Frank was in here? Drunk, I assume. He's always hitting on us. Kaila tries to take the brunt of it because—" I cut myself off, bite my lips together, cheeks heating with horror at the near slip.

Bas's eyes return sharply to mine. The crass façade fades and turns suddenly serious. I read curiosity and something resembling concern in them.

I don't like it.

"Because...?" Bas encourages, but I've greedily bitten into the sandwich, occupying my mouth with chewing to avoid answering. When I continue to take big bites, decline him any information, Bas rolls his eyes. "You have a lot of secrets, don't you?" He muses, lips quirked.

My response is to flip him off, gather my empty plate—when was the last time I finished a meal?—and half-full water glass in my hands, prepare to return to my job.

"Hold up," Bas sits up, hooks his fingers in the pocket of my apron with a cheeky grin. "If you think I'm violent, you're probably right." He concedes, and my throat constricts. My fingers tighten on the plate, prepared to bash it over his head. "But only when it's deserved and never to someone like you." He finishes, releases my apron.

I stumble back, caught staring at the sincerity burning in his eyes. Then he closes them, leans back in the chair with another low groan. I scurry to the counter, let the dishware clatter to the sink. My hands are shaking when Kaila grips my shoulder and spins me around. Emerald eyes search mine, worry etched into her frown.

"Reecie, what's up?" She brushes my hair from my face, glances back at Bas, and then at me. As we stare at one another, she switches from concern to subdued rage. Red tints her cheeks, contrasting with her cobalt hair. "Did he do something? I swear, the agony I'll inflict will make him wish—"

"No," I shake my head, press my palms against my inner thighs, feel the cuts tingle under my touch. It's not enough to break the scabs, but the slight pressure and shock of pain are enough to center my thoughts. "I'm fine, just something he said. He doesn't know; it's not his fault."

If you think I'm violent, you're probably right.

I press down harder, feel Kaila rubbing circles on my back. A few minutes go by in which my mind reels, placing Bas next to him, listing out the differences, talking down the fear. When I've managed an upright stance, Kaila slips away to wait on the people by the register.

"Sweetheart, I'm headed out," Dad comes over, gathers me in his arms. I soften in his hold, breathe out steadily when he steps back. "Be safe closing up; Frank was in earlier." He warns, cups my cheek, and smiles. I return it, still somewhat unsettled, but not enough for Dad to notice.

"We will. I'll ask someone to walk us out if it's necessary." I assure him, Dad spares Bas a glance.

"Ask Killfeather," Dad muses in that way, that implies he likes the guy. "He stood up for Kaila earlier. I'm confident he'd do the same for you."

Then Dad pulls away, bundles his jacket up, and disappears out the back door. I stare after him, irritated with Bas's ability to win people over so damn easily. Just because he's charming and handsome doesn't mean they have to like him!

How did he invade my life so quickly?

My shift today is short, only four hours long. Kaila and I work in perfect sync through most of it. I feel uncharacteristically energized after eating like my body is humming with the extra energy. It's welcoming but also unsettling because I know it'll all come back up later tonight.

Bas doesn't move from the chair, and I'm pretty sure he falls asleep at one point. People come and go, college kids lurk in corners with their laptops, the clock ticks down the minutes until close. Kaila's wiping down tables and flipping chairs when I fish out my Sharpie, approach the wall, and shriek in dismay.

"Bastard!" I cry, staring at the abomination of colors, swirls, and hearts in horror. You're so beautiful. "They did it again!" My voice is shrill, and I stomp my foot impotently.

My enraged cry is enough to stir Bas. He sits up, blinking blearily between the Wall of Expression and me. Stretching his arms above his head reveals a band of toned, tan muscle.

I tear my eyes away from his flesh, focus again on my ruined work. My outburst summons Kaila's attention and Bas's approach.

"Who did what?" Kaila asks.

I jab a finger. "Some douchebag keeps altering my phrases!"

Bas chokes on a laugh, shakes his head. "How do you know they're a douchebag? They could be very nice."

I send him a withering glare, grit between clenched teeth. "I just know."

Kaila observes the phrase, takes in the swirling letters, the colorful backdrop, the creative hearts, and artistic shadowing.

"I think it's pretty," she comments, much to my dismay.

"Well, you would!" I jab my hand at her blue hair, the pink top, and skinny gray jeans. "You love color."

Kaila sticks her tongue out at me with a giggle, returns to her tasks while I stare somberly at the wall. Bas watches me as I search for space and angle the Sharpie from his view. I'm not used to having an audience when drawing my phrases. I like my privacy too much. Bas's eyes feel invasive, Kaila's presence is uncomfortable as I scribble the words.

It's safer being empty.

Neither comments when I shove the Sharpie back into my pocket, clear my throat, and join Kaila in the closing chores. Bas lingers for a little longer by the wall, but I don't dare watch his eyes for any emotion. I pretend I'm not hyperaware of his presence as he moves to sit calmly by the door and out of our way.

"What's he doing hanging around?" I whisper to Kaila. She looks up, sees Bas holding up the wall, and shrugs.

"I asked him to get us home, problem?" She says like it's no big deal. I scowl, decline to answer for fear of making a fool of myself.

We work in near silence until the café looks neat and pretty, the pastries are stored, and the drink ingredients are put away.

"Apron," Kaila says, gesturing at me.

I untie the knot and pass it to her without comment. "I'll get our bags." She adds, slipping into the back while I shuffle beside Bas.

He looks up from his phone to give me another heart-fluttering smile. Thankfully his eyes don't capture and search mine. Instead, they return to his phone for a brief text before he pockets it.

"Girlfriend?" I inquire, afraid that if I don't say something first, he'll ask about what I wrote on the wall.

Bas chuckles and pulls up his hood, shoves his hands in his pockets. "Jealous?"

"I don't date," I snap.

Bas accepts the statement, glances at the wall, and seems to debate something. "I don't either. Too messy."

I don't know why, but the admission is both comforting and disappointing.

"Here," Kaila shoves my bag at me, puts her hand on the door. "Let's go. It's fucking cold out."