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“So.” He spun around to Naia, a twinkle in his eyes. “What’s the verdict on those cream puffs?”
She gave him a deadpan look, choosing to bite through her tongue than ever admit he was right.
Two seconds into cutting the carrots and Naia sliced the tip of her finger clean off.
Luckily, Ronin had slipped away to use the restroom.
She rummaged through his kitchen drawers for a dishrag, hands shaking, and tightly wrapped the cloth around her wound to prevent the blood from spilling onto the countertops. Battling through a dizzy spell, she was determined to scrub the granite countertop with her uninjured hand before Ronin reappeared. She darted back and forth from the sink to dispose of any proof she’d cut herself—throwing away the heaping piles of paper towels and the dishrag she’d used to staunch the bleeding.
By the time he returned, her wound had sealed up. With determination, she continued chopping carrots at her post, her teeth clenched to steady herself.
One job. It was her one job. Cut them into semi-thick slices.
“You’re moving too quickly,” Ronin said from the side.
She looked at him, the movement jostling her silver strands over her shoulder, not sure what to do with his words.
“May I?” He gestured to the knife in her grasp with the click of his eyes. “I’ll show you if you’ll let me.”
His words momentarily transported her back to a time when she had heard that exact phrase uttered by someone else.
Breathe.
Nod.
She passed him the knife.
He maneuvered behind her, his arms coming around hers, and gently, his palm rested down on the back of her hand. Their fingers intertwined to where they both gripped the handle of the knife.
“Make sure you have a firm grip. You don’t want your finger to slip and end up in the blade’s path.” His breath tangled in her hair, tickling the shell of her ear.
He positioned her free hand on the carrot and curled her fingers to grip the slick vegetable. A shiver wracked through her.
They began chopping the carrot at an angle, unhurried and precise, opposed to the straight-down method Naia was using before.
“Cutting is repetitive. Eventually you find your rhythm,” he explained. “If you make horizontal slices, it prevents the carrots from shooting across the counter.”
Gradually, his grip loosened, giving her more control to set the pace. Concentrated, she mirrored the distance between her fingertips, keeping the carrot in place and the blade.
The top of her arms, the back of her hands, her shoulder blades—she felt him everywhere. It was the first time she’d been touched without flinching. The first time her body forgot the scars it wore.
His fingers twitched against hers, and his breath splayed against the side of her neck. His touch awakened the same persistent need she had felt back at the grocery store, urging her to ease into him. She could sense the promise of peace within it, like she’d fought her whole life and could find rest within him.
She thought back on all the times she’d winced when someone unexpectedly touched her. How was this time any different?
May I? She replayed his request.
He’d asked her first.
Naia swallowed, unable to control the way her muscles relaxed in her shoulders as they came down from her ears to rest against his chest. She could feel his quickened heartbeat against the back of her ribcage—proof she affected him as well.
She bit her bottom lip back to keep from frowning when they ran out of carrot to chop.
Her disappointment swiftly morphed into revulsion—with her body and its traitorous reaction to drop its defenses.
It had been nearly a century since she shared space with another.
Ronin removed his hands from hers and floated between marinating the slabs of raw meat to checking on the potatoes roasting in the oven.
