"Oh, I…" Dylan glanced down at the tray, momentarily flustered. "I brought your breakfast. But it seems you're not ready yet."
He strode across the room with purposeful steps and set the tray on the nightstand. "Don't just stand there," he chided gently. "You are putting unnecessary pressure on your injured ankle."
Before she could protest, he clasped her shoulders, guiding her to sit on the edge of the bed. "Start eating."
Ava looked at the plate of toast, the scrambled eggs, and a glass of orange juice, her emotions a tangle of confusion, suspicion, and something she couldn't quite name. "Why are you doing all this?" she asked, raising her suspicious gaze at him.
"What did I do?" Dylan tilted his head slightly, feigning confusion.
"These." She gestured to the tray. "Cooking for me, taking out my clothes—what are you trying to accomplish?"
