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“Are you pouting?” he inquired, peering at me like I was a bug through a microscope.
“I am.” And I wasn’t ashamed of it.
“You worked all night too.”
“Only because you did.”
“Okay?”
“I like sleeping with you.”
His grin turned cocky. “Sweeter words have I yet to hear. My woman likes sleeping with me. Do I get a gold star?”
“You can get a black eye if you’d prefer?”
“Nah, I’ll take the gold star.”
“And I meant sleeping. Not fucking. Though I like that too.” I cleared my throat. “With you.”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever want to do that again with anyone else. Just the thought made me want to puke.
“You used to be the best I’d never had,” he said softly, trying to grab my hand then yanking my arm when I wouldn’t unfold it from my chest before pressing his lips to my knuckles. “Now you’re just the best.”
“‘Just?’”
He winked. “You know what I mean.”
I hid a grin. “I know what you mean.”
“We’ll sleep tonight. In bed. So you don’t have to make soup instead.”
It wasn’t instead. It was because of.
I was not a nurturer. It wasn’t in me to be like that. But Conor… ah, hell, I wanted to make sure he was okay.
In fact, it was becoming a need.
So many people had been taken from me.
My mom, then my dad thanks to Jorgmundgander’s sweep-up process, then family I hadn’t even known were fighting in my corner…
I needed Conor to be all right.
I had to keep him alive.
Not that I could tell him that. He seemed to appreciate my unique way of thinking, but this whole ‘thing’ was some freaky shit even I couldn’t find any logic in.
I didn’t think he’d get it if I said, ‘Please don’t die, Conor.’
It didn’t have the same ring as, ‘I love you.’
“Hey,” he chided as if he knew I’d spaced out, his fingers reaching for my chin. “The soup’s delicious. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” I said simply.
“I am, but I like that you made it for me.” A gleam lit up his eyes. “If you ever feel the need to bake, you could always…”
“Bake you an apple pie?” I hooted. “Not sure I should try to compete with Aoife. Making soup isn’t exactly baking.”
