He stiffened slightly in concern. Then he turned in my arms, brows raised. “Well?”
I pulled the folded printout from my pocket and held it between us. His eyes scanned the numbers. They widened. Then softened.
“Adrian, this is… incredible.”
“Normal range. Turns out sleeping, eating actual meals, and not trying to save humanity seven days a week is good for the heart. Who knew?”
His laugh broke on a breath, a sound I used to hear right before he cried. But he didn’t cry now. He reached for me, pulling me into a slow kiss that tasted of relief, pride, and everything we’d fought our way back to.
Behind him, something hissed on the stove.
“Your pot’s about to boil over,” I murmured against his mouth.
“So stop it,” he murmured back.
“I’m busy,” I said, and kissed him again, deeper this time.
“Dinner’s going to take another ten minutes.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I only came home for you, anyway.”
He rolled his eyes, looking fond, a bit flustered, and unmoving from my arms.
The song playing softly from the Bluetooth speaker changed to something with a slow sway. My hands dropped to his hips, tugging his shirt free to slide inside his waistband.
He slid his hands around my shoulders. “Dance with me?”
“I look like I survived a minor war.”
He rolled his eyes, already tugging me toward him. “Adrian. You’re perfect.”
I slid my knee between his thighs to rub against him.
“Adrian,” he warned, already fighting a smile, “I’m cooking.”
“You’re also dancing,” I corrected, maneuvering his hips.
He let out a breathy laugh as I spun him in a lazy circle, and he melted into me. The pot on the stove hissed louder, bubbling dangerously close to overflowing, but neither of us looked.
I held him close, swaying back and forth with no rhythm, no purpose except having Eli warm in my arms, my nose buried in his hair, and the world finally quiet.
Then the pot boiled over with a loud, angry splatter.
Eli yelped. I laughed. He shoved my shoulder, grinning. “You’re a menace.”
“Worth it,” I said, kissing the corner of his mouth before reaching to rescue the stove.
He watched me with that expression I’d never quite gotten used to—soft, certain, and full of something that felt suspiciously like peace. For the first time in my life, I understood what real abundance felt like.
“How come all my best memories are in the kitchen?”
I couldn’t swallow the laugh that bubbled out. I turned to him, pointing the wooden spoon accusingly. “Not the bedroom?”
His eyes twinkled. “Nope. The kitchen. Maybe I’m aroused by the smell of garlic?”
Ass. I set the spoon down and stepped closer. “Maybe we should make some new ones. Spread the love.” I peered past his shoulder. “Against the wall in the hallway, or maybe the dining room?”
His laugh was contagious. “The dining room?”
