Still, wrapped in his arms, warm and solid and unwavering, I let myself imagine what it would feel like if he were right.
And I didn’t pull away.
22
BELLE
Two weeks passed in a blur of physical therapy appointments, careful stair climbing, and Raphael pretending he is not monitoring how long I stand in the kitchen.
My knee was getting stronger. Not derby-ready, but stronger.
Physical therapy was humbling. There was nothing glamorous about clenching your jaw while a woman named Diane tells you to engage your glutes and stop compensating with your hip. There was nothing empowering about wobbling on a foam pad while twenty-year-olds on the other side of the room recover from ACL surgery like it’s a minor inconvenience.
Still, I went. I did the exercises. I iced like I’m supposed to.
Raph and I were learning each other. It was evident in the way he brings me coffee without asking how I take it because he knows now, the way I leave his office door open when I’m cooking because I like hearing the low cadence of his voice on calls, and the way he rests his hand at the small of my back when we move through the house like it belongs there.
It was terrifying how natural it felt.
The library upstairs was no longer a sacred reveal. My books had begun to fill the empty shelves. Paperbacks lean against leather-bound volumes like they’ve always belonged there. Sometimes I’d catch him in the doorway watching me read, quiet and thoughtful, like he’s studying something more complex than contracts.
I was starting to trust him. That was the dangerous part.
When I got home after my shift, I started dinner. I was cooking again, fully, without the brace, testing how long I can stay on my feet. The kitchen smells like garlic and thyme. I’ve got vegetables roasting and a pot simmering softly on the stove.
The windows were open just enough to let in the faint hum of the river.
It felt like home.
I was focused on slicing tomatoes when I sensed him before I heard him. There was a shift in the air when he entered the room. His footsteps were soft against the hardwood.
I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to.
A moment later, his hands settled at my waist. He stepped close behind me, his chest brushing my back, and I exhaled into him.
He pressed a slow kiss just below my ear. It all felt so domestic, like we’d done this for years instead of weeks.
My hands still on the knife, I leaned back into him.
“Ma Belle,” he started, voice low.
“You’re hovering,” I murmured.
“I am appreciating. There’s a difference.”
He hummed softly against my skin. “You are cooking.”
“Yes.”
“You look . . . ” He paused.
“Covered in flour?”
“Happy.”
The word landed deeper than the kiss. His arms tighten slightly around me, holding me in place.
“I have a call I have to make, but then I’m done for the day.”
