I can't help the self-deprecation that drips from my voice.
Saint stops. Turns to me, and for a moment, I think he's going to take me in his arms and smooth all my worries away. It's what I want more than anything—for someone to see me, to care.
Instead, he pushes a strand of hair from my face, looks deeply into my eyes with his green ones, and says: "Come on. I'm starving. Let's see what's in the kitchen."
I blink, sure I'm losing it.
In fact, I'm not losing it. Saint, indeed, wanted to cook. And as much as he gave me whiplash out on the beach, this is—nice. Somehow, exactly what I needed.
We cook together. Pasta, nothing fancy, but working side by side feels intimate in a way our bedroom encounters never have.
Saint's surprisingly competent in the kitchen. "Lyla taught me," he explains when I comment. "Said a man who can't feed himself is helpless."
"You? Helpless?" I laugh. "I can't imagine it."
"You'd be surprised." He tastes the sauce, adjusts the seasoning. "I'm good at violence. Good at strategy. But the normal shit? I had to learn."
We eat on the deck despite the cold, bundled in blankets, watching the sun set over the water.
"This is nice," I say softly.
"Yeah." His hand finds mine under the blanket. "It is."
I want to freeze this moment. Preserve it like one of the paintings I used to dream about restoring.
Because I know it can't last.
That night, he comes to me differently.
No urgency. No roughness. Just Saint, crawling into bed beside me, pulling me close.
"Hi," I whisper. I want to tell him that I've missed him. I've missed the feel of his body on mine, the dirty words he whispers in my ears. Instead, I tell him those simple words.
He kisses me slowly. Thoroughly. Like he has all the time in the world and wants to spend it learning every inch of my mouth.
His hands slide under my nightgown, but not with their usual purpose. Just touching. Exploring. Like he's memorizing me.
"Saint—" I moan.
"Shh. Let me touch you."
He pulls the nightgown over my head, lays me back on the pillows. And then he just... looks at me.
"You're staring," I say, suddenly self-conscious. I want to cover my body. His green eyes are too intense. Does he think I'm too fat, still? Or am I now too thin?
"You're beautiful."
His words cut through my insecurities.
"Do you mean it or are you insulting me?" I hate how small I feel.
He ghosts a kiss down my throat.
"I meant it before. I mean it now." His hand traces from my collarbone to my hip. "Every time I look at you, I..."
"What?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing. Just let me touch you."
