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The expression that settled on his face was a mixture of annoyance and fondness. “Val. What did you do?”
“Baked?”
He rubbed his hand over his face. “Baked,” he repeated.
“Half-baked?” I was trying to be funny.
Taavi snorted. “You’re half-baked,” muttered. “Whatdid you half-bake?”
“Bread dough. It’s rising.”
“Bread dough.Dios, Val.”
I felt my ears heat. “It’s forpan de muertos,” I muttered, my Spanish pronunciation probably horrific.
“Oh, Val.” There was a hint of disappointment, but there was also fondness and something that might have been pleasure? I wanted to surprise him, to make him happy. I wasn’t sure yet if I’d done that, at least until he came and sat next to me, then gingerly drew me into a hug. I wrapped my arms around him, leaning into his warmth. “Thank you,” he whispered into the side of my neck.
I let a smile pull up one side of my lips—I didn’t want to pull the stitches on the other side. “You might have to help me with the rest,” I warned him.
He laughed softly. “I might just finish the rest myself,” he replied.
“I can do it.”
“But you probably shouldn’t,” he pointed out.
I sighed. “I want to.”
“Okay,” He agreed, gently pressing a kiss to the cheek on the unbattered side of my face. “But if you get too tired, please let me finish, okay?”
I ran my fingers along his jaw. “Okay,” I promised.
He caught my hand and gently kissed my fingers. I’d pulled the bandaging off last night, and while there were still scrapes and scabs, the swelling was way down and there weren’t any open wounds on my hands. They were sore and a little achy, but they were healing faster than the rest of me. I was glad—it meant I could do things like knead bread. And touch Taavi.
“Did you at least eat while you made bread dough?” Taavi asked me, gently setting my hand back in my lap.
I sighed. “No.”
“And I don’t smell coffee, either.”
“No.”
He pushed himself up, then bent to kiss my forehead. “Okay. I will do breakfast and coffee. What do you want?”
“You?” I leaned into his hip.
His lips quirked, and he ran one hand over my messy half-assed ponytail. “Cute, Val. For breakfast.”
“Whatever is fine.”
“Okay.” He petted my head a few more times. “Dog food it is.”
I snorted. “Sounds good.”
He let out a soft laugh, bent to kiss the top of my head, then went into the kitchen, where I heard him moving around, the occasional clatter of pans and bowls.
I shifted, wincing, to get comfortable on the couch, since I had probably another half hour or so before the dough finished proving. Pet jumped up and curled up on the empty cushion next to me, and I reached out a hand to stroke her fur.
My phone buzzed, and I grunted as I leaned over to grab my phone off the side table.
