Page 89 of Flint’s Strike

“It ain’t that hard. You just can’t let it get too hot or it breaks. People think it’s magic or some sort of miracle. It’s eggs and butter and payin’ attention.”

I cut into the egg, the yolk running the second the knife hits it. The first bite is heaven. Bright and rich and buttery. And if I keep eating like this, I’m going to have to start getting up a hell of a lot earlier for longer runs. “God. This is amazing,” I manage around one perfect forkful. “I love cooking, but breakfast never felt worth the effort. I was wrong. So wrong.”

We clean our plates in relative silence broken only by the scrape of a fork or a slurp of coffee. I note—with more than a little relief—that Eliot found the hemp milk in my fridge.

“So, what do you usually do on Sundays?” he asks, setting his dish back on the tray next to mine.

“There’s a farmers market a few blocks from here, down at the park. If we’re not workin’ overtime, I’ll get as much as I can there, then hit up the grocery store for the rest. I spend the afternoon cookin’ for the week.” I watch him over the rim of my mug, gauging whether this was a “get to know you” question or if he wants to extend our date a little longer. I know which one I want, and it doesn’t involve him leaving any time soon.

“Sounds nice.” There’s a hint of longing in his tone, and I have my answer.

Leaning close enough to nudge his shoulder with mine, I ask, “You want to join me?”

“Wandering produce stalls and buying tomatoes?”

“Yup. You might get roped into carryin’ a bag too. Fair warning.” I grin. “Hope that’s not a deal breaker.”

“I’d love to.” He cups my cheek, the briefest of kisses warming my lips before he carries the tray back out to the kitchen.

No one’s ever asked to be a part of my life like this before. The few times my relationships have lasted long enough to matter, the guys all expected me to work myself into their lives. Not the other way around.

But Eliot bought a tray so he could cook me breakfast in bed. He planned for me instead of around me. And I’m not entirely sure what to do with that.

The breakfast dishes are done, we showered—an activity that took much longer together than alone since we couldn’t keep our hands off one another—and I pull on a pair of peach shorts and a floral tank while Eliot zips up his Wranglers. But he takes one look at his shirt and grimaces.

I pull my hair into a high ponytail, waiting to see if he’ll tell me why he’s making that face. Jumping right into fix-it mode again won’t help either of us.

After another long moment, he lets out a heavy sigh. “This is a new shirt. I cut out the tags, washed it three times, but the seams…” He shakes his head. “If I wear this out in the heat for a few hours, I’ll be in a world of hurt.”

I cross to him, wrapping my arms around his waist, and tip my head back to hold his gaze. “You’re welcome to one of my t-shirts. Or…I could give you the one I wore home Friday morning.”

That startles him. “You took my t-shirt?”

Embarrassment crawls up the back of my neck, white hot and bright enough I’m sure Eliot can see it. “I was wearing it when you locked yourself in the bathroom. I thought…”

Shit. I can’t tell him what I thought.

“I can get it for you.” The words are quiet, and I slink over to my closet.

“Wait.” Eliot captures my hand before I can reach the door. “I like the idea of you having somethin’ of mine. Only seems fair that I have somethin’ of yours, too.”

“T-shirts are in the second drawer of the dresser,” I offer. “They should fit you well enough. They’re practically dresses on me. And they’re old. Washed so much, they’re super soft.”

Eliot stares at the drawer for several seconds before he pulls it open. My stack of Recruit school t-shirts is on the left, faded so much the logos are barely legible.

His jaw works once before he touches the top one.

“Haven’t worn short sleeves outside my apartment in seven years. Not since the fire.” He stares at the shirt like it’s about to bite him. “I don’t let people see the burns.”

I run my fingers lightly over the smaller scars on his upper arms. These aren’t as deep as the ones on his torso. No grafts here. Just long-healed burns. Shiny, pale skin. Almost like mine. The ones I still haven’t told him about.

“You let me see them.”

“Remember what I told you that night I drove you to Urgent Care?” he says, a small bit of humor returning to his voice.

“You ain’t most people?”

His dry chuckle holds no actual humor, but he lifts the t-shirt, holds it up to his chest, and eyeballs the size before pulling it carefully over his head.