He shouldered off his jacket, sauntered over in my direction with the intention of giving me a kiss, then froze in his spot, taking in all the dishes around me. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing. I made you dinner and got a little carried away.”
“You made me…dinner?” he asked, as though the idea was unheard of.
And I guess it was. To him. Because I’d spent so much time trying to hate him and being deliberately rude to him.
“Yes,” I said softly. “I know you like home-cooked food. But you don’t have to?—”
“I…need a second.”
Abruptly, he turned around and stalked toward the bedroom. I stood in the kitchen, blinking in confusion.
Did I do something wrong?
Did I overstep?
I didn’t think I did.
But maybe Achilles wasn’t fond of trying new dishes. Or maybe he didn’t want me to touch his things. Although, none of these options seemed even a little viable.
Itching to go to the bedroom and ask him if he was okay, I forced myself to stay in my spot. He needed a moment, and I intended to give it to him. I swiped my finger over my phone’s screen, checking the time. I was going to give him ten minutes before I went there to check on him.
Achilles returned after eight minutes, just when I was becoming antsy enough to break my word and go after him.
He wiped at his eyes, and I noticed they were red-rimmed.
There was no way he’d cried, right?
Licking my lips, I didn’t dare move or breathe.
“Are you okay?” I croaked, achingly sad for some reason.
Was it really that surprising, that out of the realm of expectation, that someone took care of Achilles and not vice versa?
I guessed the answer was yes. His mother never really liked him—his words, not mine—and his father was categorically incapable of emotions. Then there was me. I’d given him some affection, some love, something to cling to, while we were kids, then took it all away abruptly.
No wonder he’d hated me with such ferocious heat.
“I’m fine. I’m just…” He stopped in front of me and smiled a bit shyly. “I’m just really happy that you’re here,” he finished.
That was all it took for me to eat the rest of the space between us with two steps and twist my fingers in his hair, drawing him close for a heated, passionate kiss. I tasted the cigarettes and coffee on his breath and vowed somewhere inside me to take care of this man if he’d let me.
When I released him from my kiss, he still looked a little dazed.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah…I think.”
“You think?”
“I’m a little shocked you made all of this for me. But, yeah, I am. I am hungry,” he said, stating the words to himself more than to me, trying to ground himself in the moment.
“I’m happy to be here, too, you know.” I ran my fingers over the jagged skin of his cheek—along the scars I’d put there. “And I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How do you know?”
