Page 97 of Things We Burn

My brain scrambled to catch up as he glimpsed at the instruction booklet for the crib for a handful of seconds before tossing it aside and getting to work.

“I can cook for you,” I offered, watching the muscles in his forearms move fluidly.

My desire woke up, and my mouth went dry while watching the muscles move, his veins bulging. Those arms had held on to me while I writhed in pleasure. Those hands had explored every inch of me.

When he paused, glancing up once again, my heart stuttered. It was there. Just a sliver, a mere speck of what used to exist before but impossible to miss. The heat. The spark. The warmth.

My body bloomed underneath even the scantiest sign of it.

“I want you to cook for me,” he murmured, his voice rough, hungry. “And you will. But not now. I want you to go get your phone, a book, whatever you need. Then you’re gonna plant your ass there.” He nodded to the glider in the corner, the one piece of furniture that had come assembled. “While I put the crib together.”

My vision blurred.

I tried to calm my breathing.

“Chef.”I blinked through unfamiliar tears. The endearment. One that I’d heard thousands of times over the years from many people, but it never sounded better than it did coming out of Kane’s mouth.

“Phone. Book. Food.” His voice was gentler that time. Much gentler.

I held on to the words, tasks. I was good at tasks. I nodded then made my way to the door.

“Chef.”

I paused, turning.

Kane’s gaze was no longer cold. No longer empty. It was so full I could barely stand under the weight of it. Slowly, very slowly and very purposefully, his eyes went up and down my body. I felt every place it landed. His eyes lingered for a long time over the swell of my stomach. When our eyes met again, I was shaking, and I could’ve sworn Kane’s eyes were shimmering.

There were things on his face, many things. Things that planted more hope inside of me. That made me think we might not be over. That he might still want me.

I held my breath as he opened his mouth, expecting him to say something earth-shattering, to give affection like he had so readily before.

“No ground beef. In the takeout. I’ve been put off that stuff for life.”

I swallowed my disappointment. But I nodded.

“Got it.”

Then I turned and left the room.

It was only once I was downstairs, clutching my phone while ordering takeout that I sank to the floor and gave myself exactly five minutes for self-pity.

Sixteen

We ate without speaking.

Kane sat cross-legged on the floor, taking bites in between putting the crib together. I sat in the glider, book untouched. The food would’ve been too, if Kane hadn’t looked up within five minutes of the food arriving.

He didn’t look exactly in my eyes, just at the plate in my lap, the fork.

“Eat,” he ordered, the single word puncturing the silence.

I could’ve added to it, torn away at the thick wedge between us with words of my own. Could’ve argued against such an order, informing him that I would eat when and if I wished.

Yet I didn’t.

I picked up the fork and put the food in my mouth. I couldn’t say what it tasted like. Heartache. Regret. Pain.

Kane watched me for a few more mouthfuls, and when he was satisfied that I was heeding his command, he resumed his project.

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