Theo
“Illya, what are you doing?” Mumbling as Illya wiggled her way out of bed, I had to physically stop myself from throwing my arm over her to keep her still. Cracking open my eyes, I followed her silhouette through the gloom before she very carefully turned the overhead light onto its lowest setting. “Come back here.”
“I’m hungry.” Inhaling deeply, I held my breath for a second before sitting up and exhaling a blustering sigh. Ruffling my hair roughly, I shook my head and rolled my shoulders, and she was still by the door when I threw my legs over the side of the bed. My feet didn’t leave the pristine, barely used carpet, and I scrunched up my face as I blinked hard.
“What time is it?” I patted for my pockets before remembering I’d taken my pants off, and a frown twisted my lips. When was the last time I’d taken my clothes off before going to bed? It just seemed like the right thing to do when I knew better than to get caught without. Bending to snatch my jeans, I pulled my phone out and winced at the bright, blue light that pierced my eyeballs.
“I thought you’d tell me a dick joke.” Snorting roughly at that, I dropped my phone onto my pants on the floor to throw my arm around Illya’s shoulders. Scratching my jaw hard with my left hand, my right buried in her hair to knead her scalp as my brain puttered along until it found a reply.
“I could’ve, but I’m not gonna. Food isn’t a joke when I know you had no problem eating wet cat food.” Truth be told, it hadn’t even occurred to me to say something like that. I was fuckingdead.Heading out of the bedroom and into the hall, I held Illya’s head to my shoulder to bury my nose in her hair. “I haven’t slept so well in a long time.”
“Me either.” Edging the living room, my legs tightened when the carpet was replaced with cold tile, and Illya tensed against my side. “This is so uncomfortable. I know it’s mine, but . . . ”
“Want me to make you something?” Eyes widened with surprise flew to bore holes in my chin, and I couldn’t help but smirk as Illya nodded hastily. “Come on.”
Illya’s apartment was exactly the same layout as mine, and I wasn’t surprised to find all the shit in the kitchen was in the same spots, too. She watched curiously, almost bewildered, as I pulled a cutting board out from behind the toaster oven, and a bubble of satisfaction popped in my chest. Reaching under the counter for a pan, I set it on the stove before gesturing to the refrigerator.
“What do you want?” I wasn’t a chef by any means, but I knew more than how to boil water and add mac’n’cheese. Slowly shuffling to the fridge, Illya grabbed the door but didn’t tug, and my heart throbbed slightly. She just stared for a long moment, her knuckles whitening as she squeezed and released the handlebar, and my brows furrowed deeply.
“I . . . I can’t . . . I can’t do it.” Sauntering the short distance to her, I covered Illya’s hand with mine, and her fingers flexed stiffly. Her nerves thrummed through me, and I gingerly popped the seal to release a blast of cool air. She sucked in a sharp breath and shivered against my chest, and I couldn’t help but scowl at how anxious just the idea of a full fridge made her.
And, man, it waspackedwith everything she might need to cook whatever she wanted. Grabbing her shoulder when her knees quaked against mine, I ground my teeth at how impactful something so seemingly normal could be. In California, she hadnothing, but here she hadanythingandeverything.
My scowl darkened when Illya sniffled, and she reached a trembling hand into the refrigerator tentatively. When her fingers brushed a gallon of milk, she choked out a little laugh, as if she expected it to be a really good hologram or something.
“Do you need a minute?” She shook her head, giving me a glance at her mystified expression, and I pursed my lips thinly against the barrage of emotions swirling in my chest. “Let’s make eggs. Easy, right?”
“Um . . . yeah. Okay.” Reaching around her to grab the eggs sitting on the top shelf, I left Illya to lean into the refrigerator and gaze at the food like she was seeing the stars for the first time. “There’s bacon . . . ”
“We’ll make bacon.” The time on the stove read three-thirty-six a.m., and I set the eggs on the counter to go back and grab butter and milk. “Grab whatever you want.”
The way she stayed still was kinda pathetic, to be honest, but I wasn’t gonna judge her beyond the simple fact that her situation was really, really fucked up. She held the bacon package so carefully, moving so slowly as she closed the refrigerator door. Watching her out of the corner of my eye, my chest tightened, and she held her item like she didn’t want to let it go.
“Come here.” Reaching into an upper cabinet to grab a bowl, I gestured Illya closer, and she gripped her bacon with a white-knuckled grip. Pulling her between myself and the counter, I ignored the ugliness building against my ribs and popped open the egg carton. Holding her hands in my own, I managed to wrestle the bacon from her and replace it with spreadable butter. “You’re not gonna wake up and find out it was a dream, Illya. It’s okay.”
My mumble made her shiver against my front, and I pressed my cheek to Illya’s temple as she shuddered a sigh.
“This would be a nightmare.” Sucking my teeth at that, I didn’t deem a reply. Instead, I reached for the silverware drawer. “I’m pretty pathetic, aren’t I?”
“It’ll get better.” Holding the knife in her hand, I guided her through unfamiliar movements and focused on savoring this experience. After all, something like this only happened once. It’d get easier and easier, less thoughtful, less impactful, as time went on. “When was the last time you cooked something?”
“Probably before my parents died. With my burns, I couldn’t stand near the stove and burners and stuff.” I didn’t have shit to say to that. How fucked up . . . how fucked up was Illya’s life, and she was pretty alright? How much could a person endure?
What kind of asshole was I with my superficial problems?
“Well . . . ” Clearing my throat roughly, I tightened my grip on her hands and poised the knife over the container. “You can prep.”
Every movement was sluggish, but Illya must’ve forgotten that she hadn’t eaten in three days— or maybe it was normal and didn’t bother her? I didn’t know, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to ask. Slapping the butter into the pan, I only guided her movements, and her palms were hard and stiff from discomfort. Taking a deep breath of her smell, I closed my eyes briefly as she capped the tub of butter and set it aside.
“Do you want toast and English muffins?”
“Both?” Nodding at the question, I ignored when Illya’s breath hitched loudly in the otherwise quiet kitchen to bounce off the granite counter.Maybe, it’d be a while before she got used to this.
I could get used to this easy. I could wake up like this. I could do this every day. I could get comfortable with this tug on my heart.
