He sighs. “Jahlani, nothing about what you just said was dramatic. Your parents neglected you. That’s not nothing.”
She nods, water filling her eyes. “Yeah, well when you put it that way, it sounds bad.”
He pulls her back into his chest, shaking his head. “Baby, it is bad, and it affects you, and you’re allowed to feel however you’re feeling.”
She exhales against him. “Do you think I need a therapist, maybe?”
His muscles tense slightly at the loaded question. “It might help to talk to someone about how you’re feeling every once in a while, you know? Therapy isn’t a bad thing.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she murmurs, burying her face closer. “I always wondered … why you smelled like this.”
He clears his throat, his fingers grazing the length of her arm. Up and down. “Like what?”
She sits up, her hair framing her face. “I don’t know how to explain it,” she says, her lips twitching.
He leans closer, pushing her hair back before drawing her back to his chest. “Try,” he whispers, skating his hand over her hair, her shoulder, her cheek. His fingers growing bolder over her body when she shivers.
“Roman,” she says, her voice raspy. “If you keep doing that … I’ll fall asleep.”
His fingers stop their motion, and he settles back against the cushions, closing his eyes when his stomach clenches. She reaches up, grasping his hand and he looks down at her.
“Don’t stop … it feels nice,” she whispers, guiding his fingers over her scalp again. “So … yeah. Keep going. I’ll fight it.”
He swallows, picking up where he left off, and she curves further into his body. “You still didn’t tell me what I smell like,” he says, his voice rough.
She sighs, her own hand drawing down to her stomach. “Like lavender, and clean laundry, and … powder. Like a baby, which was confusing.”
“Confusing how?”
“It was unexpected. Most guys smell like a night out, but you smelled like …”
He wets his lips, his blood turning hot under his skin. “Like?”
“Like a home,” she says softly, pressing her face into his hand and inhaling. “You always do.”
Fuck.
He isn’t sure how long they sit there, but eventually she pulls back and mumbles something about needing to use the bathroom. When she steps back out, he’s pulling out ingredientsfrom the kitchen. Bracing his hands on the counter, he nods toward the water he poured for her.
“Drink this,” he says, shoving a glass into her hands. Almost robotically, she brings it to her mouth. When she tries to bring it down, his hand is there, gently tipping the cup back up, his eyes on hers, urging her to empty it. When she finishes, she lowers it, letting out a shaky exhale.
“Thanks.”
He reaches forward, prying it from her and setting it on the table. She wipes the back of her hand over her mouth.
“Better?” he asks.
“Better,” she says in a low voice. She looks around at the food spread out. “What’s all this?”
He slaps the table.
“Let’s make cinnamon rolls.”
She laughs. “Why? We just ate doughnuts.”
He shrugs, scratching under his chin. “You said it calms you down. We don’t have to actually eat them.”
She smiles, walking until she stands next to him in the kitchen, her body brushing against his. “I’m in charge of whisking.”
