Logically, I knew I must have gone into shock. The aftereffects of the adrenaline and the horror had amalgamated into a noxious brew in my blood and turned me into a helpless, pathetic creature. He didn’t complain as he maneuvered me into the passenger seat, carefully buckling me in before seating himself in the driver’s seat.
The only thing I was truly aware of on the ride home was his hand, reassuring and grounding, resting on my thigh during the drive.
25
Warmth seeped through the barricade of shock before anything else. A gradual pulse of heat beating back the illimitable chill hooked beneath my skin. Before my name, my thoughts, it was only heat returning home to the forge in my chest that breathed life into my being. A gradual sensation, like lava flowing down a mountainside; it cascaded through my fingers, my arms, before flowing into the well at the center of me.
I blinked, and the world materialized into focus.
Steam spiraled upward, carrying the scent of herbs and garlic into my nose. There was a bowl in my hands, loaded with my favorite tomato penne soup from the pantry. Familiar and mouthwatering. The realization that I was home settled into the back of my mind. Then I looked up, noting that I wasn’t alone.
The atmosphere sharpened and fractured as if I stood in a mirror gazing into an alternate reality. My heartbeat surged in my ears, pounding and echoing.
Professor Quinn stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he went about washing utensils. My mind moved as slowly as my eyes, traveling the planes and valleys of his shirt clinging to his broad shoulders and back. The way his hair curled just slightly at the ends and brushed the top of his collar almost mesmerized me. And he continued his menial chore, moving around the kitchen with easy efficiency as he grabbed a hand towel and began drying the washed dishes from the sink.
I didn’t have time to be embarrassed by the buildup of my dishes the past few days when it struck as odd that he effortlessly knew where everything was. As if he’d been there a dozen times before.
For a singular, dizzying second, I permitted myself to fantasize, to drift into a daydream of a companion sharing the load of domesticity. Was this what it felt like to share your life with someone?
It was as he turned that he caught me staring.
The mask in his eyes fell, and the full force of his glittering concern narrowed onto me. “Ophelia?”
“Yes?”
He closed his eyes, exhaling with relief before looking at me again. “Welcome back.”
“Did I go somewhere?” I held the bowl tighter, relishing the burn of hot porcelain on icy fingers.
His chuckle draped around me, as warm and comforting as a safety blanket. “In a sense.” He tossed the damp hand towel over the sink before leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest. “You were in shock. I brought you home.”
Home. The word rattled in my skull like a misfit puzzle piece slotted in the wrong place. On one hand, I easily imagined him in a homely space with me, sharing in the louche carelessness of a Saturday morning seeped in the aroma of roasted espresso beans and maple syrup. Too easy to picture him as he was, with a silly themed apron tied around his waist, wearing the stern concentration he applied to lectures as he flipped pancakes.
The background in those daydreams didn’t match our current environment.
This place wouldn’t be home for long. If anything, it was merely a stopping point tainted with unguarded memories.
“Well, thanks…” My voice trailed off before bewilderment broke through the rapidly fading haze. “How do you know your way around my kitchen?”
He froze, and his gaze snapped to the window behind my head. The avoidance pricked at me after growing used to the striking intensity of his staring.
“Not exactly what I expected you to ask, Miss Ashcroft,” he said, voice low, and careful. Not an answer.
The atmosphere went taut, and the silence unfurled into a tense standoff. Sickly awareness curdled in my stomach, and heat flushed under my cheeks. I knew he was hiding something—everything—but the knowledge suddenly sat uncomfortably, like a pebble between my ribs.
“Please tell me it was because of your time as my grandpa’s student,” I said, almost whispering the plea. Things were strange enough. I couldn’t bear another wrench in my reality.
His shoulders immediately dropped, not fully, but enough to blur the sharp edges of him as his body shifted. His chest dropped on a silent exhale, as if relieved. The guarded tension loosened from his sea-storm eyes.
“Yes,” he spoke confidently as the presumed answer landed between us. “Precisely that. Hunter and I worked very closely together. He was my mentor.”
But the way he’d moved through my kitchen and the way he avoided my eyes revealed more than he felt obliged to share.
“Tthat makes sense…”
My gaze dipped down, and everything inside me ceased functioning.
A dark stain smeared on his trousers glared back. A rust-colored, sticky blotch smudged diagonally over his thigh.
