“Still… you can’t deny that living like this is way more comfortable than being a philosophy professor no one listens to.”
I tap the spoon twice on the rim of the pot and set it gently on the napkin by the stove. “Comfortable? Sure.” I shrug. “Lonely? Also true.” I pick the spoon back up and start stirring again, mostly so I don’t say something I’ll regret.
Like how I’d trade all of this in a heartbeat just to live a normal life—with her.
Thunder booms again. The wind is picking up, shaking the palms outside like they’re echoing my mood.
“This is the worst storm I’ve seen since I moved here,” she says softly, eyes on the movement of my hand in the pot.
I smile to myself. She sounds so innocent—so her. The same tone she used to use when we were alone.
“Well, I’m glad you’ll be safe here.”
“I always felt safe with you,” she whispers, lifting her eyes to mine, locking us in.
Emma’s got one hand supporting her head, the other flat on the island. She’s leaning forward a bit, her whole body leaning into the moment. There’s something in her eyes—vulnerability, maybe. For the first time since I found her again, I see the chains falling away. I keep stirring, stunned by what she just said, when suddenly I smell something burning.
“Shit!” I shout, pulling the pan off the stove. “Still good, I think.”
Emma starts laughing—likereallylaughing—and I can’t help but join her.
It’s freeing. Fresh. And whatever the hell I was mad about earlier is totally gone now.
She slides up next to me with a fork in hand—I have no idea where she even got it—and steals a bite straight from the pan. She rolls the food around in her mouth, savoring it. “It’s good.”
I stare at her lips and wonder if maybe this life—this domestic version of us—isn’t so impossible after all. “Sit,” I order, voice low and rough.
She must know what having her this close does to me, because she backs off and returns to her stool, taking all her radiant energy with her.
I place a plate in front of her and a glass of water with a pitcher beside it. “I’d offer you wine, but…”
“No, don’t even say it,” she cuts me off with a little wave.
I sit beside her, leaving a respectable distance. My plate’s a little more loaded than hers, but I honestly don’t think I’ll eat a bite. Her being here overwhelms me.
“Thanks for bringing me here,” she says. “I don’t know if my building can handle a storm like this, so… thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Em,” I say. “But I’ve gotta ask—how’d you end up like that last night? You’re not much of a drinker.”
“I’m not… I still don’t drink. Last night…” She sets down her fork and lifts her glass, but doesn’t drink. “I was nervous.”
“Because of what I said?”
She finally sips, then nods. “The bandana.”
“What about it?”
“Come on, Luca!” she says, shoving me like she always did when she was frustrated. “Why do you have my bandana in that drawer? Why’d you wear it last night?”
I stand up with my plate and walk over to the sink. I need distance for this conversation. “You’re asking the wrong questions, Em.” I keep my back to her.
“Oh yeah? What’s the right one?”
I turn and grip the edge of the counter, staring her down. “Why wouldn’t I have it? Why wouldn’t I wear it?”
She opens her mouth to respond, but then shuts it. “Luca…”
“Ask me the damn question,” I growl.
