Page 70 of Our Elliana

“Guys,” I shake my musician and firefighter. “I know you’re tired. Why don’t you go on up to bed?”

“You sure?” Noah asks, yawning and looking beat.

“I’m awake,” Jackson protests, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger as if they’re gritty.

“Go,” I order them, then glance at my chef. “I’ll be good here with Tristan.”

Although Jackson hesitates until I make a shooing motion at him, he and Noah eventually shuffle off upstairs.

I expect my chef to take this opportunity to nestle up against me, but instead, he pushes to his feet.

“I’ll make you something to drink. I have this great hot milk toddy recipe. It’ll help you to settle and get some sleep.”

“All right,” I agree, but rather than merely laying there, I join him in the kitchen.

I’m still emotionally ragged out and unwilling to be alone, so accompanying him feels like a requirement. It’s only as I watch him prepare the toddy in a saucepan on the stove—his hands trembling a little—that I remember his recent refusal to come out of his room. His claim about being ill despite my suspicions to the contrary.

“Are you okay, Tristan?”

“Fine,” he grunts, facing away from me and sounding about as credible as a thief caught red-handed.

I come up behind him, placing a palm on his elbow. He flinches and whirls away from me, spilling the milk from the carton in his grasp. I jerk my hands up in surrender, even as I call him on it.

“Uh, that reaction isn’t fine. Nothing about that is fine.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, standing in front of my fridge without opening it, his eyes cast downward.

I decide I’ve had enough of this.

“Talk to me, Tristan.” He peers over at me, and those features that I’ve come to know quite well, the ones that are in turns curmudgeonly, sarcastic, or blissed out are full of trepidation, shame, and guilt. “Is all this about that bloody card?”

“Yeah,” he nods, but drags his gaze to the side again.

“Then why don’t I believe you? Why have you been staying away from all of us recently?”

He squinches his eyes shut and shakes his head, murmuring, “I... I can’t.”

My chef is not a man who minces words.

“Can’t what? Be around us?” Around me?

“Can’t... tell you.”

Never once have I heard him stumble over what he’s trying to say like this. I approach him slowly, like I might a wounded animal. Normally, his olive skin is a darker tone than the others, but right now, his face is nearly as pale as Noah’s. His dark eyes meet mine, and there’s turmoil there.

I come to stand directly before him, cautiously bringing my hands up to frame his face. When my fingers brush his cheeks, he releases a warm breath and embraces me. I realize it’s the first time he’s done so all night. It’s the first time he’s made physical contact with me in days.

Questions burst into my head like kernels of popcorn, but I subdue them. As much as I’ve needed my men’s comfort tonight, it hits me that maybe Tristan is just as much in need of mine. We hold one another for long moments until his body lurches suddenly toward the stove.

“Can’t let it boil. It’ll ruin it,” he explains, whisking the pan from the burner.

He sounds more like himself, and I remain silent as he retrieves a couple of coffee mugs and pours the contents from the pan into them. He next sprinkles some cinnamon on top and hands me one by the bottom, allowing me to collect it by the cooler handle. My chef has always done thoughtful things like this. Despite his often-gruff demeanor, he frequently puts others first.

Especially me.

Without saying anything more, he leads me into the living room and grabs the remote.

“Bridgerton or more 227?”

---