Page 192 of King of Pain
God, I missed this.
This is one of my favorite things—watching him completely in the zone, singing to whatever ‘80s song is playing low from thespeaker, sleeves pushed up, expression focused and content. It’s sohim. So familiar.
And now it’s real. Again.
My heart feels heavy in my chest. Not from sadness—just… this overwhelming wave ofeverything. Gratitude. Relief. Love. The kind of love that anchors you, that holds you together at the seams.
There were nights in that cabin I wasn’t sure I’d ever get out. I didn’t think I’d get to have this again.
I think of Ma. I think about what she’d say if she could see us now. I think she’d cry. Then laugh. And then threaten me to never break his heart again. But she’d still be proud.
“Hey, babe?” Ant calls, slicing through my thoughts as easily as he’s slicing those cucumbers.
I blink, turning my gaze to him, and I smile automatically at the sound of it—babe. A simple word. A huge feeling.
“Yes, boyfriend?” I say, half-playful, half in awe that I get to say it.
He smiles and flicks his eyes toward the fridge. “Can you open a bottle of wine for dinner? Grab a white. I think I bought a Sauvignon Blanc. Should go well with the piccata.”
I nod and head to the kitchen. Grabbing two glasses from the cabinet, set them on the table before heading to the fridge for the wine.
I set the wine on the counter, walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, burying my face into the crook of his neck.
He leans into me immediately, humming softly, and sets the knife down.
Without a word, I tighten my grip and spin him around, lifting him slightly as I do.
“Hey!” he laughs, landing with a small stumble, arms crossed, suspicious and amused. “What are you doing?”
I say nothing—just spin back toward the counter, open the drawer under where he’d been working, and pull out the wine opener.
Turning back around, I hold it up with a flourish. “Needed the wine opener.”
His eyes narrow, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fights a smile. “You’re an ass.”
“I’m a great piece of ass,” I correct, and kiss him before he can argue.
He melts against my lips, then pulls back, already reclaiming his kitchen.
“Go. Sit. It’ll be ready in a minute. Iknowyou’re starving.”
I step back, let my gaze roam slowly down his body and back up. “Famished,” I say, voice low and shameless.
He rolls his eyes, shaking his head with a grin as he turns back to his salad.
I take the hint and head to the table.
Ant sets the salad down first, then disappears back into the kitchen and returns a moment later with two steaming plates of chicken piccata over mashed potatoes. He places one in front of me and gently slides the other into place before taking his seat. Little G huffs from where he’s flopped at my feet, clearly annoyed he’s not been served too.
After setting the plate down, Ant runs a hand up my back, his fingers lingering at the base of my neck for a second longer than usual. His expression is soft—but something flickers behind his eyes. Something distant.
It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t catch it.
But I’m not most people. I know him. I know the chasms of his mind he escapes into when his thoughts are too loud. And this… this is one of those times.
He slides into his chair, kitty-corner from mine, and unfolds his napkin into his lap. I reach down, grab the edge of his chair,and tug it closer until he’s nearly brushing my side. He huffs, but his lip twitches at the corner.
“Oh man,” I groan after my first bite of piccata. “We may have a new second favorite.”
