Page 64 of Boots & Scars

"Thank you," he murmured.

I nodded, feeling an odd mix of relief and worry wash over me as we finished tending to his injuries together.

I gently blew on Cooper's knuckles before applying a soft kiss to each one. The moment felt intimate, charged with a kind ofunspoken tenderness. When I pulled back, my cheeks felt like they were on fire.

Cooper's eyes narrowed, like he couldn't quite believe it either. "What was that for?"

"Whenever I got hurt, my mother said my father would always kiss my injury and it would magically go away," I explained, feeling a bit self-conscious. "She would do it after he died too, and it always worked. I thought I'd try it on you and see how it worked. Didn't your mom and dad do the same to you?"

He chuckled, but the sound was hollow, almost empty. "My father and I aren't exactly on speaking terms, sugar."

My face fell. My heart went out to him instantly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm not," he replied, his voice carrying a weight that suggested he meant every word.

I wasn't sure he truly believed it, though. The thought of not having a relationship with my father tore at me; I'd give anything to have that connection back. Maybe Cooper just needed a little push.

"Well?" I asked, trying to lighten the mood. "Did it work? Do your hands feel better?"

He smirked, his eyes twinkling for the first time since we'd started this whole process. "You have the magic touch, killer," he said. "Let's make sure you use that magic for good, hmm?"

"Always," I promised, holding his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

The air between us shifted slightly—less tense, more comfortable. I could sense the walls he'd built around himself cracking just a bit, enough for me to glimpse the person beneath the tough exterior.

"He won't hurt you, or anyone else, anymore," he murmured. "And that's a promise."

Three days had passedsince I last stepped out of the house. The outside world seemed distant, almost foreign, a place that held little appeal. My sanctuary had become the kitchen, a space that felt both comforting and suffocating at the same time. I stood by the oven, wrapped in an oversized sweater and worn-out jeans, waiting for the timer to go off.

The smell of something burning tickled my nose, making me second-guess every step I'd taken in the recipe. I resisted the urge to open the oven prematurely; the instructions were clear—wait for the timer. Still, anxiety gnawed at me. The ham was meant for Cooper. It was a small gesture, a way to show him I could be useful, maybe even thoughtful. Easter was around the corner, and I wanted to get this right.

I paced back and forth across the linoleum floor, each creak beneath my feet echoing my impatience. The clock on the wall seemed to mock me with its slow-moving hands. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and glanced at the instructions one more time.

“Ten minutes left,” I muttered to myself, feeling every second stretch into an eternity.

My thoughts wandered to Cooper. He'd been on my mind constantly, his face appearing unbidden in my daydreams and even my nightmares—not as a villain, but as my savior. The lines etched by his scars told stories he rarely shared. Yet those stories haunted me too, weaving themselves into my own worries and fears.

The smell grew stronger, teetering on the edge between aromatic and alarming. My heart pounded as I resisted opening the oven door again.

“Just stick to it,” I whispered.

I wanted so badly for this small effort to matter. To show him I could contribute something worthwhile despite feeling lost and out of place most days.

The timer finally buzzed, breaking my train of thought. My hands trembled as I grabbed oven mitts and pulled open the door. A wave of heat hit me in the face as I carefully extracted the ham. It was darker than I'd hoped, edges singed slightly but not burnt beyond recognition.

“Well,” I said aloud to no one in particular, “at least it’s not a total disaster.”

I placed it on the counter and began applying the glaze with deliberate strokes, trying to cover up any imperfections with sweetened layers.

I turned the ham over and saw the bottom, blackened and charred. My heart sank.

"Frick," I muttered under my breath.

Tears threatened to spill, but I blinked them away. I couldn't afford to break down over a piece of ham.

"It's okay," I said to myself, trying to muster some optimism. "Maybe if I apply extra glaze, he won't even notice."

I picked up the brush again and began layering on the sweet glaze, my movements more frantic now. Each stroke felt like a desperate attempt to cover up not just the burnt meat but also my insecurities, my doubts.

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