Page 65 of Pyre

"She’s cute."

"She gives me hell, especially about my hair." He stirred something on the stove, the scent of olive oil and lemon filling the air. "You’d like her."

Something in her chest tightened. "I’m sure I would have."

Silence stretched between them. His shoulders tensed the moment he realized his mistake. Present tense. He forced a tight smile. "Do you mind stirring this for me? Gotta run to the restroom."

She nodded, stepping forward to take the spoon from his hand. He disappeared down the hall, his footsteps fading, leaving her alone with the simmering pot.

The couscous swirled under her touch, tiny pearls dancing in water kissed with olive oil, lemon slices bobbing at the surface. The scent was incredible—bright, fresh, tangy. But it didn’t make her hungry. Her stomach stayed quiet. Her mouth didn’t water. She wanted to taste it—just to prove she could.

What would she do while he cooked every night? While he sat across from her at dinner? Would she watch him eat, pretending it didn’t bother her? She couldn’t light a cigarette at the table; that would be rude. And it would set off the fire alarms. Would he sit with her outside while she ate? Would he get used to her not joining him for meals?

Her grip tightened around the spoon.

Would he stop planning dinner dates? Eat alone at the movies? Would he still accept dinner invites from friends, or would he start making excuses? Did he want kids? Of course he did. A kind, family-loving guy like him—he had to. But she—

The spoon snapped in her hand, the wood splintering into her palm. Half of it clattered to the counter. She stared at it, her breath coming faster, her vision tunneling.

Biological kids were out of the question. And any kids they adopted would age too fast. They’d grow past her, looking more like her siblings than her children. And Jonah—he would age too. His face would wrinkle, his back would stoop. He’d turn gray, and she—

She would look the same.

She would have to bury him one day.

A hand slid over hers, warm and steady. She flinched, but he didn’t let go. His grip was gentle as he pried the broken spoon from her fingers. A solid warmth pressed against her back, an arm winding around her waist. The scent of his cologne filled her nose, grounding her, familiar. She sagged against him, her hands braced against the stove.

He pressed a kiss against her temple, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. He didn’t let go. Instead, he set the broken spoon aside, reached over to turn off the burner, and spooned the couscous onto a plate. Setting it to the side, he buried his face in her hair.

"I’m sorry if I upset you," she murmured.

He shook his head, his breath warm against her skin. "You didn’t. I was upset with myself for slipping up that way. Trust me, it was my fault."

Slowly, he gathered her hair to one side, his fingers featherlight against her neck. Then, his lips traced the newly exposed skin, soft and unhurried. A shiver rippled through her, her fingers curling against the counter.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. "Is this okay?"

She didn’t trust her voice so she only nodded again. He pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, soft and insistent, before trailing light kisses along the length of her skin. Each touch sent a shiver dancing down her spine.

She leaned back, molding their bodies together, and inhaled sharply as he bit the tender crease where her neck met her shoulder. A sharp sting bloomed, only to be soothed by the slow sweep of his tongue.

“Think I could leave a mark?” he murmured before sucking on the spot, his voice husky against her skin.

She tilted her head back, baring her throat in invitation. “Probably…probably not.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and knowing, his breath drifting down her shirt, igniting a fresh wave of heat across her skin. His hand crept along her stomach, fingertips ghosting over the fabric with a featherlight touch that left her muscles taut. “I’m sure as fuck going to enjoy trying.”

She pulled away, and he groaned, his frustration evident in the way his hands twitched at his sides.

“You should eat first,” she said, hopping up onto the dining room table. The wood was smooth beneath her palms as she slid back, pushing herself toward the far end. The movement caused her skirt to bunch around her thighs, and when she tucked her knees together, his breath hitched.

“I fully intend to,” he hummed, locked onto the space between her legs.

She laughed, the sound light and teasing. “Your actual food.”

His attention flicked to the waiting plate, and without looking, he scooped up a bite. He chewed absently, distracted, while her legs parted just slightly.

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