Unwritten Obsession - Joe Goldberg

Chapter Twenty One: Breakfast with You

Juliet

The morning sun filters through the cracks in my blinds, casting slanted rays across the living room. The quiet hum of the city is muffled by the walls, but I can still hear faint echoes of life outside—a car honking, a distant shout, the rhythmic sound of someone jogging past.

And then there's the sound of Joe's steady breathing beside me.

I woke up before him, which surprises me. He looks peaceful like this, his features relaxed and soft, his usual intensity momentarily absent. I've never seen him like this before—unguarded. The faint morning light catches on the scruff of his jaw, the small scar near his temple. I wonder where he got it but don't dare ask.

It's strange to feel comfortable with someone like this, to not feel the usual itch to push them away before they get too close. I expected to wake up in a panic, regret curling in my stomach. But it's not there. Instead, there's this quiet calm I don't quite know how to name.

I don't move right away. I just watch him, my head tilted against the couch cushions. His arm is still draped across my waist from where we fell asleep last night. I don't know how we ended up like this—talking until exhaustion caught up with us, my head on his shoulder and his arm pulling me closer.

I should feel awkward. I should feel something. But all I feel is... safe.

That realization scares me more than I'd like to admit.

Joe stirs beside me, his lashes fluttering as he blinks himself awake. His eyes are soft when they land on me, and for a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence between us comfortable and warm.

"Morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," I reply, my own voice quieter than usual.

He shifts slightly, sitting up but not moving his arm. "You're up early."

"I guess I couldn't sleep," I say, though it's not entirely true. "What about you? You're usually the one up at the crack of dawn, right?"

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. "Maybe I'm finally learning to relax."

The corner of my mouth quirks up. "Doubtful."

His hand moves slightly, brushing against my side as he pulls back. The absence of his touch leaves a strange ache in its wake, but I don't let it show.

"I should make us breakfast," he says, standing and stretching. His shirt lifts just enough to reveal a sliver of his stomach, and I quickly look away, pretending to focus on the stack of books on my coffee table.

"You cook?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks, heading toward the kitchen. "Don't sound so surprised."

"I just... didn't peg you as the domestic type."

"You'd be surprised," he calls back, opening the fridge.

I follow him reluctantly, leaning against the doorframe as he surveys the limited contents of my fridge. His brow furrows slightly, and I can't help but smile.

"Not much to work with, huh?" I tease.

He turns to me, holding up a carton of eggs and a loaf of slightly stale bread. "Challenge accepted."

Joe moves around the kitchen with an ease that surprises me. He cracks eggs into a bowl, whisking them with practiced precision. He finds a pan and some butter and sets to work, all while I watch him, trying to figure out how someone like him—so composed, so capable—ended up in my chaotic little world.

"You don't have to do this, you know," I say, crossing my arms.

He glances at me, his brow lifting. "Do what?"

"All of this," I say, gesturing vaguely toward him. "Cooking, being... here. You don't owe me anything."

Joe's movements still for a moment, but then he continues, flipping a slice of bread in the pan. "I'm not here because I owe you, Juliet," he says, his tone steady. "I'm here because I want to be."

His words catch me off guard, and I look away, unsure of how to respond.

"You don't have to push me away," he adds, his voice softer now.

"I'm not," I say quickly, though the defensiveness in my tone betrays me.

He doesn't argue. Instead, he plates the toast and scrambled eggs, setting them on the small kitchen table. "Sit," he says, his voice gentle but firm.

I roll my eyes but obey, sitting across from him. The food smells better than it has any right to, and I take a hesitant bite.

"Okay, this is actually good," I admit, surprising myself.

Joe smirks, taking a bite of his own. "Told you."

We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the tension between us easing with each bite. I can feel him watching me, but it doesn't feel invasive. It feels... protective.

"Why me?" I ask suddenly, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Joe sets his fork down, his gaze steady. "Why not you?"

"You could've walked away," I say, my voice quieter now. "Most people would've."

"I'm not most people," he replies.

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. "Clearly."

His expression softens, and he leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. "I see you, Juliet," he says, his voice low. "I see everything you try to hide, and I'm still here. That's not going to change."

The sincerity in his words makes my chest ache, and I look away, my hands fiddling with the edge of my sweater. "I don't know how to believe you," I whisper.

"Then don't," he says simply. "Not yet. Just let me show you."

The vulnerability in his voice catches me off guard, and I find myself nodding before I can think better of it.

"Okay," I say softly. "I'll try."

His lips curve into a small, genuine smile, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm not alone in this.

We finish breakfast, the silence between us warm and unspoken promises hanging in the air. As Joe washes the dishes, I watch him, my thoughts swirling.

Maybe this could work. Maybe I don't have to do this alone.

And maybe—just maybe—Joe is exactly what I've been searching for, even if I didn't know it until now.