Chapter 13
JJ
Some may have my head for mixing the sauce with the pasta in the pan, but I swear it tastes better this way. Gives the noodles time to soak up the flavor. I find bowls and forks after opening a few cabinets and leave them on the counter while I check on Miles.
He’s lying in bed, eyes closed, breathing slowly and evenly. I step into the room, and his eyes pop open.
He smiles sweetly, his lips turning up just slightly.
“Is the food done?” he asks, his voice raspy.
Something about this moment hits me hard, right in the chest. I’m just trying to be nice, to help him out because he feels like shit, but it feels like more. Domestic, even—and I don’t hate that.
“Just about. Do you want to eat in here?”
Shaking his head, he pushes himself up to sit. “Couch.”
He puts his feet on the ground and stands up, wobbling slightly. I reach for his arm to hold him steady.
“Are you sure this is just a hangover?” I ask.
“Definitely,” he says with a firm nod. “I drank… so much.” He shudders, a look of disgust on his face. I remember those days. I’ve had plenty of them.
“Did you have fun at least?” I ask.
He glances at me, smirking. “From what I can remember, yes.”
Miles gets to the couch and sits down, reaching for the blanket that’s hanging over the back on the other end, just out of reach. I grab it, unfold it, and drape it over him. He smiles gratefully at me.
“Do you want the remote?” I ask.
His gaze goes to it on the coffee table, also out of his reach.
“Please.”
I give it to him and hear the TV turn on as I go back to the kitchen to put food in the bowls. I bring them, napkins, and the bottles of Gatorade I picked up from the store into the living room and set everything up on the coffee table.
“You really don’t have to feed me,” he says as I pick up one bowl, leaving the other.
“But you were so good.”
He holds my gaze, and I swear heat flashes through his blue eyes. I twirl the fork to gather some fettuccine and bring it to his mouth. He opens it, his full lips wrapping around the fork and taking the bite.
He moans, his eyes falling closed.
“Wow,” he says, covering his mouth with his hand as he chews. “Wow, this is so good. How did you do this?”
I shrug, getting another bite ready for him. “I like to cook when I have time. And… when someone appreciates it.”
“Do you cook at the firehouse?” he asks.
I give him another bite, and he chews as he waits for a response.
“Not usually, but sometimes. Mostly the rookies do. It’s usually quick stuff, though. You never know when the alarm will go off, so you have to stop whatever you’re making right then and there. Sucks sometimes when the food gets ruined.”
“That must be hard.”
“Hard isn’t the right word. Inconvenient, I guess, but it’s all part of the job. Seconds matter once the alarm goes off, so turning a knob for the burner or pressing the button to shut the oven off may be all the time we get. Not all of us get called out together all the time, so sometimes someone else can take over. We make it work. We’re a team.”
