“...Yes?”
I turned off the burner and opened the window above the sink to let out the smoke. “Okay. New plan. I’m cooking.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Theron.” I turned to face him. “How often do you actually cook?”
He was quiet for a moment. “I usually eat at the arena. Or order takeout.”
“In this kitchen?” I gestured at the professional-grade appliances, the vast counter space, the double oven that looked like it had never been used. “This is a crime.”
“I bought the house for the land and the privacy,” he said defensively. “The kitchen came with it.”
I shook my head and started opening cabinets, taking inventory. He actually had food—basic staples, eggs that weren’t expired, cheese, vegetables that looked reasonably fresh. Someone had stocked this kitchen even if he never used it.
“Sit,” I told him. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
He leaned against the counter instead, watching me work with an expression I couldn’t quite read. I found a pan that wasn’t ruined, cracked some eggs, and started making an omelet properly—medium heat, patience, actually paying attention to what I was doing.
“My ma taught me to cook,” I said as I worked. “She said no son of hers was going to starve because he couldn’t feed himself.Made all of us learn, even though Marco complained the whole time.”
“You’re close with your family.”
“Yeah.” I added cheese and the sautéed vegetables to the omelet, then carefully folded it. “They drive me crazy sometimes, but I love them. They’ve always had my back, even when I couldn’t tell them about why things went bad in Chicago.”
I could feel his eyes on me as I plated the omelet and started on another one. There was something intimate about this—cooking for him in his kitchen, both of us barely dressed, the morning light making everything feel soft and unreal.
“This is nice,” he said quietly.
I glanced over at him. “What is?”
“This. You. Here.” He moved closer, his hand settling on my hip. “Someone to wake up to. Someone who looks at home in my space.” His thumb traced circles through the thin fabric of my briefs. “I’ve been alone a long time.”
My chest tightened. “You’re not alone anymore.”
He kissed my shoulder, then my neck, and I had to focus very hard on not burning his omelet. “You’re going to distract me.”
“That’s the plan.”
I laughed and nudged him away with my elbow. “Food first. Then you can distract me all you want.”
We ate at the kitchen island, and I watched him take his first bite with an expression of surprise. “This is really good.”
“It’s just an omelet.”
“It’s significantly better than anything I’ve ever made.” He took another bite, and I found myself charmed by how much he seemed to be enjoying it. “You’ll have to teach me.”
“Deal. But fair warning, my ma’s standards are high. You’re going to have to actually pay attention and not just set everything on high heat and hope for the best.”
“I can do that.”
We cleaned up the kitchen together, and I tried not to think about how domestic this felt. How right it felt to be moving around his space, passing him dishes, bumping shoulders as we worked.
“We should probably talk about work,” I said finally, closing the dishwasher. “About how we’re going to handle this.” I wanted to talk about more, but I’d promised to give him time and I would.
His expression shifted, becoming more serious. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“And?”
