Page 82 of 1 Last Shot

His tail starts to wag, and he leans down to grab the motorcycle toy that I didn’t realize he had set at his feet. Then he's pushing into my house, and very excitedly shoving his nose into my hand to show off his toy. I let out a laugh at his obvious happiness and squat down to scratch his head.

“That’s his favorite toy now,” Kane says. “He sleeps with it, too. He’s obsessed.”

My own smile feels like it’s about to split my face.

It takes me a little bit to pull away from Oscar, but after a minute, I stand and let them into my apartment. When Kane steps inside, he wraps his arm around my waist and presses a kiss to my neck. I feel his smile against my skin as a shiver runs through me.

“I’m happy to see the building hasn’t burned down,” he teases.

"I don't think I'm a bad cook, I just don't know what I'm doing," I admit. "No one ever showed me what to do."

Another kiss, this time to my lips. I gasp when he lightly nips my lip before pulling back.

"Then let me show you. We'll do it together."

Together.

Does that word hit him as hard as it hits me?

His tone doesn't give anything away, but before I can try to get a read on his face, he's pushing past me and making his way into the kitchen. I give Oscar one last pat, and then I'm following behind him.

"Chicken parm, I'm assuming?" Kane asks.

I nod. "Yeah. I thought it would be the easiest, but I don't even know if I got the right ingredients."

Kane looks over the breading station I set up, and the sauce I have off to the side on the counter. "We can make this work."

His choice of words makes me skeptical. "You sure? Don't lie to save my feelings, I'd rather know if something's bad."

He's shaking his head before I'm done talking. "It won't be bad, I promise. Besides, this is already way better than what I used to eat. I had to teach myself how to cook so I wouldn’t go hungry some days, but I’ll tell you right now, a seven-year-old is rarely a good cook.”

He starts messing with the different bowls and ingredients on the counter, so he doesn't notice the shock in my eyes or the way I'm staring at his form. He doesn't see the expression on my face that I'm sure is making it entirely evident the way my heart aches for this man.

This strong, capable, extraordinary man who made something of himself after a terrible start to life.

A man who still doesn’t see himself as deserving of good things.

In the past few days, Kane has started to drop tidbits like that into our conversations, seemingly without even noticing he’s doing it. I’m so ridiculously glad that he feels comfortable enough to do it, but I've also never felt such an intense mixture of emotions. Standing in the center of my kitchen, I feel rage for young-Kane, pride for grown-Kane, and above all, awe that he feels comfortable enough with me to share these pieces of him. My fingers itch with the need to wrap my arms around him from behind in gratitude.

"Next time, we'll get different panko and a better sauce, but you would've had no way to know that," he says, jarring me from my spiral of thoughts. "Not because these are bad, I just know which ones are the best-tasting for chicken parm." He turns around with a questioning look. "Ready?"

I mentally shake myself from my reverie. "Ready."

For the next half hour, Kane and I go through breading the chicken, frying it, and then baking it. By the time we slide the sauce-covered pan in the oven, I've got a huge grin on my face and an excited bounce in my step.

"I know it's stupid to feel proud about something so simple, but this kind of feels like a stepping stone in my Philly life," I admit. "At the risk of sounding spoiled, I didn't realize it would feel this satisfying to feed myself. I thought having a cook in my house and DoorDash on my phone was a better option because it was quicker and easier, but honestly, cooking for myself kind of makes me feel like a self-sufficient adult."

Kane doesn't try too hard to keep the amused smile from his face. "DoorDash has nothing on your chicken parm, princess," he says with a chuckle as he rinses the last bowl.

With everything finally soaking in the sink, he comes over to where I'm sprawled out on the couch and lifts my feet into his lap so he can take a seat at the end. But his tone is no longer teasing when he says, "But you were always a self-sufficient adult, Isabella. Not knowing something you never needed to learn doesn't change that. I'mgladyou never had to cook for yourself."

He starts to rub my ankle, leaving me to stare thoughtfully at the side of his face. I wonder if he even notices he always massages my left ankle—the hurt ankle.

I want to ask Kane more about his life, but I also don't want to push him before he’s ready. So I settle on asking him about the gym.

I’ve noticed he’s started to talk a little more about the gym lately. Not even about fighting—or the way he used to think of fighting—but about the sport itself. He talks more about what he learned, and less about how he wanted to hit someone. Yesterday he even mentioned a conversation he had with his coach about a possible fight, and instead of shaking it off as ‘just another fight,’ he described some of his goals for the training camp.

I listen to him talk until he runs out of words. It usually doesn’t take long, but I’ll take any insight into Kane I can get. Ilikelearning about him. There’s still so much I want to know, but I’m not blind to the fact that it’s going to take time.

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