“Sure.” I open a cupboard and pull out a mug, too aware of his eyes on me.
“It didn’t sound like everything was all right.”
I freeze for a second, then slowly reach for the tub of cocoa powder and set it down on the counter.
“You heard that, huh?”
“I think the whole neighborhood heard it.”
I groan. “Wonderful.”
I pad over to the fridge to get the milk and notice the can of whipped cream on the top shelf.
“Screw it.” I get the milk and snatch the can and shut the fridge door a little too hard.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“What I want is to drown my sorrows in a vat of hot chocolate.” I pull out a saucepan and pour in the milk before turning on the burner.
Stephen is quiet for a moment, but then his footsteps disappear into the walk-in pantry.
“Here.” He tosses down a fresh bag of marshmallows on the counter.
I look at the bag, and my eyes start to sting.
He frowns again. “Unless you don’t like marshmallows…”
“No, I love them.” I hastily wipe my cheek. “It’s just… I showed Ronan something. It was camera footage from Max’s apartment the night he died.”
I glance sidelong at Stephen, who is nodding slowly, a deep crease between his dark brows.
“And?”
I stir the milk. “And I know he recognized the guy who shot him. But he wouldn’t talk to me about it. He just… left.”
My voice cracks, and I suck in a breath as my eyes start to blur.
Stephen comes to stand beside me, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to hug me, but then he reaches for the tub of cocoa.
“Let me.” He starts tipping it into the saucepan.
I don’t argue. Instead, I lift myself onto the counter beside the stove and hug my knees into my chest as the tears start to fall once again.
Stephen whisks the milk. “Ronan’s got a lot on his plate.”
“So do I.” The words are harsher than I mean them to be, but it’s true.
“You’re right, but he doesn’t know that, does he?” He gives me a sideways glance.
I ignore his rib. “It’s exhausting not knowing what’s going on.” I rub my hands up and down my arms, feeling the cold start to seep in once again. “I feel like I’m part of his life, but never fully in it, if that even makes sense…”
Stephen turns off the burner and faces me. “Youarein his life, Ciara. He just doesn’t know how to share the parts that scare him with you yet.”
“Is that what this is about? Fear?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Or control.”
“This is Ronan we’re talking about. It’s always about control with him,” I scoff.
