She laughed.
“What?” he asked as if embarrassed. “What is so funny?”
“Not funny,” she said. “Just a coincidence. I am here for the same reason. I could not sleep and…” She eyed the pot. “Is there enough in there for both of us?”
He furrowed his brow as if he thought that she was making fun. She looked at him plainly, sure to erase the humor so he would know that she was being serious.
“There should be,” he said finally and turned back to the pot. “It will be ready in a moment.”
“I can wait.” She shook her head to herself, truly surprised by this happenstance. Then she crossed the room toward him, her smile returned, a sense in the back of her mind that this was a moment not to be wasted.
He does not wish to open up? Let us see just how stubborn he is.
“I am surprised to see you doing this by yourself,” she said to him as she stepped behind him, careful not to be too close.
“I did not see the point in waking anyone,” he responded. As he spoke, he watched the pot of milk, cautious and careful about looking back at her as if worried. “This is no great task.”
“A duke who can cook,” she said lightly. “I never would have guessed.”
He scoffed. “This is hardly cooking.”
“So, I should not come to you in the middle of the night when I am taken by sudden cravings? I will remember that.” She was sure to laugh, praying he would see what she was doing and relax just a little.
“Of course not,” he said dismissively.
She sighed. He was just so closed off… so determined to remain so.How can I reach him? There must be something?
It was at that moment that fate decided to intervene. At least that was how Ophelia saw it. Adrian, so determined to focus on anything but his wife, held his right hand over the pot to feel its temperature. As he did so, he lost focus on his left hand, dropping it by the side of the pot, and accidentally bringing it too close to the open flame.
“Argh!” he yelped as the fire licked the side of his hand.
“Adrian!” Ophelia rushed toward him.
“I’m fine…” He winced as he gingerly pulled his hand into his chest. “It is not as bad as – argh,” he winced again, gritting his teeth in pain.
She scoffed. “Oh yes, clearly there is nothing to be concerned about.” She turned off the flame on the stove, then raised an eyebrow at Adrian as he nursed his hand, his jaw clenched, the pain obvious by the expression on his face. “Come here,” she sighed as she reached for his hand.
“It’s nothing.”
“It is.” She took his arm, gripped it tight, and looked pointedly at him. “Now, will you please stop being so ridiculous and allow me to see?” She continued to look at him.
Adrian was so determined to shut her out. But Ophelia did not think he wanted to do so. In her mind, the way he behaved was based on old habits, a natural reaction that he did not know how to counter. Thus, it was on her to push through his defenses.
“It really isn’t so bad…” Slowly, he let her check his hand. “It hardly – argh,” he winced again.
“It looks superficial…” She held his hand in both her own, using the moon’s white light to check for any damage. “No scarring. But let us be safe. Come on.” Still holding his hand, she gently guided him toward the sink. That time, most surprisingly, he did not fight her.
Adrian allowed Ophelia to guide his hand under the faucet, just as he allowed her to gently rinse it with cool water. She stood with his arm tucked to her side, his hand in front so that he was over her shoulder. And while she could feel how stiff and awkward he was, he did not fight as she carefully massaged his hand beneath the tap.
“There…” she said softly as she washed his hand. “How does that feel?”
“Better,” he said stiffly. “Much better.”
“It is not such a bad thing to accept help, you know,” she said, still washing his hand. “Some might even call it a strength.”
“And when helping another leads to future consequences that might have been best avoided?” he asked her with a bitter chuckle.
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
