Page 41 of Omega’s Fold

We spend the morning in the bed. Not like before. We’re just dozing and snuggling. He has his hand in my hair for a while and I half sleep against his shoulder.

Around noon my stomach makes a noise loud enough that he laughs.

“I should make some food,” I say, which isn’t funny, and he laughs anyway.

“What is there?”

“Eggs. Bread. There’s bacon if Donna left any.”

A small pause in him that I feel against my ribs. “When is she bringing the boys back?”

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“Ah.”

“Morning. Early.”

He is quiet.

“So,” I say.

“So.”

I roll onto my side and look at him. He meets my gaze.

“How about I make us dinner tonight?” he says. “You must be starving.”

“Okay,” I say. “Dinner.”

It’s stupid. I’m literally going to have dinner at my own kitchen table, the same way that I have for years, but it feels like a date. I don’t know yet what this means. He certainly doesn’t want to live here. I’m not giving up the ranch.

But right now, it doesn’t matter. I can talk to him. Something has shifted and now it feels normal talking to him, like I do to Donna or to the boys.

He starts cooking while I go and have a long hot bath, soaking muscles sore from the heat.

The scent of cooking chicken drifts up while I soak, making my stomach rumble even more.

I don’t have a lot of fancy clothes – none really, but I find a clean pair of pants and a clean shirt with a collar, have a shave and it will do.

I come down and find him pulling the bird out of the oven. He has found the good plates and candlesticks from the sideboard, and another little shiver rushes through me.

Candlesticks means date. It must do. I’ve never been on a date and certainly not one in my own home, but I am pretty sure that is what is happening here.

“It smells amazing,” I say and mean it. He’s done something with lemon with the chicken, and made garlic potatoes with a side of greens.

He’s found a bottle of white wine somewhere, and he pours for me first.

For a while, we just eat. I am ravenous. A heat will normally do that, but this hasn’t been a normal heat. This one has had a lot more activity than usual.

Finally, I push my empty plate away and sit back, feeling lazy and satisfied.

He sets his fork down. He picks up his glass. He doesn’t drink from it; he just holds it, then he reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“My mother is going to be insufferable about this,” he says. “She’s been messaging me for days wanting to know how it is going.”

He’s never mentioned his mother or any family, but then it’s not as if we were having long heartfelt conversations up until this point.

“I think it’s going well,” he says. “Better than I thought.”