Page 86 of Second Sin

“I like having you here.”

And it’s the damn truth.

Which is a problem. Because nothing this good ever stays.

For a second, we just stand there. Her pressed against me, my hand at the small of her back, her breath warming the space between us. It’s easy. Too easy. And I’m not used to easy.

She pulls back just slightly, eyes still soft, mouth twitching like she’s fighting a smile.

“I should’ve just brought over frozen pizza".

“Too late. We’re committed. I’m already emotionally attached to these shallots,” I say, grabbing the onions.

She lets out a sigh of resignation, but there’s no real weight behind it.

I hand her a cutting board and a chef’s knife—still in the packaging, which earns me another amused glance.

We get halfway into the recipe, if you can call it that, before things start to unravel.

The garlic burns. She drops a spoon in the boiling water, yells “Shit!” and I fish it out like an idiot, nearly burning my hand.She gets sauce on her shirt. I get onion juice in my eye. She tells me I’m banned from seasoning anything ever again.

But we’re laughing.

Real, chest-deep laughter that makes me forget how fucked up I usually feel in my own space.

She makes this place feel different. Less like a bunker. More like… something close to a home.

Her. Here. It feels right.

“This is really terrible,” she says, pulling the spoon from her mouth with a grimace. “Like, impressively bad.”

“Can’t bethatbad.”

She holds the spoon out, challenge in her eyes. “Taste it.”

I do. Immediately regret it.

It’s somehow both bitter and too sweet.I cough once. Swallow. Try to play it cool.

She watches me, arms crossed, smug as hell. “Well?”

I force a swallow. “Bold flavor profile.”

“You mean boldly disgusting. Do you concede?”

I lean in, crowding her just a little, grinning like I’m not the least bit ashamed. “To what?”

“That you are not a chef.”

My hand finds the counter behind her, bracketing her in without really meaning to.

“I never said I was,” I murmur. “I said I could follow instructions. Turns out that’s debatable.”

She bites her lip, trying not to laugh, but I can see it, feel it, in the way her shoulders shake just slightly. Her eyes flick up to mine.

“Next time? Frozen pizza,” she says, grinning up at me.

I don’t grin back.

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