“Hey, baby, what’s for dinner?” I lean over his shoulder to see if I can thieve something off the cutting board.
“There’s meatloaf in the oven, baked potatoes, and cucumber salad for greens.”
“Culinary for Christmas dinner.”
“Family tradition.”
“What’s not?” I ask, a little sarcastic.
Tom sighs, flipping the potatoes in the skillet.
“We eat sober at Christmas to remind ourselves how life once was, to stay grateful and humble. The money we save goes straight into the McKenna Foundation. We fund instruments and lessons for kids whose families can’t afford them.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“That came out wrong. I’m so sorry.” I steal a kiss behind his ear. “That’s such a great initiative.”
“We were those kids once, surviving before we even turned ten. That’s why the foundation matters. Music brings light when the days are dark. Gives you somewhere to escape to.”
I want to say something, to tell him how proud I am too, but I know better than to crowd the moment.
I take his hand, giving it a soft squeeze. I want him to know that he—and yes, his family too—have my deepest respect for that.
He points the wooden spatula at the cucumbers.
“You dare cut them with those surgeon's hands?”
I snort. “The fuck, Tom. I used to make clean cuts in the trauma bay with a 10 blade in total chaos. I can manage a cucumber.”
I wash my hands and pick up the knife.
“Put it down.” Tom takes my wrist, repositioning the knife in my hand.
“Can’t call for a doctor in the room if you slice yourself open.
I chuckle. “This is indeed a little different from holding a scalpel.”
“That’s exactly what I meant. You’re overqualified.”
He’s so damn proud of that line.
I turn back to the board and make neat, even cuts, because some childish part of me still feels the need to demonstrate competence.
I bump his arm.
“That was hot. You, showing me how to hold a knife.”
“I’m not that into knife play, love. But if it’s steel you’re after, I can show you something even harder to hold.”
My teeth graze softly against his ear. “At home, Sapphire.”
“Home,” he says, gleaming with nostalgia. “My forever favorite word.”
And with those words, I see his shoulders ease for the first time since we set foot in this hostile territory. But I know that relief won’t last long. I still need to talk to him about Effy before dinner is served.
“Listen, baby, I ran into Effy at the West House. She knows about us.”
The spatula clatters against the skillet.
