Page 54 of The Black Wife Blessing

36

HENRY

Iwake up to the smell of bacon and pancakes, confused and half-asleep. Sunlight streams through the blinds, casting warm stripes across the empty side of the bed where Monica should be resting. Fuck. She's supposed to be off her feet.

I bolt upright, grabbing a t-shirt and pulling it over my head as I rush toward the kitchen. The sound of a pan sizzling and soft humming confirms my suspicions.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demand, rounding the corner to find Monica standing at the stove—on one foot—her crutches propped against the counter as she flips pancakes with expert precision. Her fractured ankle is still in its cast, elevated slightly as she balances.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," she says without turning around, the spatula moving with practiced ease despite her awkward stance.

"Monica, you're supposed to be resting. The doctor said?—"

"The doctor said a lot of things." She pivots carefully, using the counter for support. "But what he didn't say was that I had to stop living my life."

I cross the kitchen in three strides, positioning myself beside her. "You were discharged yesterday. Your ankle is fractured. You could fall and hurt yourself worse."

"Henry, I've been cooking on my feet for twelve-hour shifts since I was twenty-two. I think I can handle making breakfast on one foot." She slides a perfect golden pancake onto a growing stack. "Besides, I was going crazy just lying there."

"That's what Netflix is for," I grumble, but I can't help admiring her stubbornness.

She places a finger against my lips. "Shh. Just sit down and eat. I needed this—to feel normal, to do something with my hands that isn't filling out police reports or looking through old text messages."

The fight drains out of me. I understand needing control when everything else feels chaotic. I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist carefully, my chin resting on her shoulder.

"At least let me help, Mrs. Blackwood." I slide my hands down to her hips, steadying her. "Let me take over. You've done the hard part."

"I'm perfectly capable?—"

"I know you are. That's not the point." I reach around her for the spatula. "The point is that I'm here to help, whether you like it or not."

Monica reluctantly surrenders the spatula with a dramatic sigh, but I catch the hint of relief in her eyes. I help her gather her crutches, then take over flipping the remaining pancakes while she supervises from a safer distance.

"The bacon needs to come out in thirty seconds," she instructs. "Not a second longer or it'll be too crisp."

I follow her directions to the letter, plating everything exactly as she specifies—bacon arranged in perfect parallel lines, pancakes stacked with military precision. Once breakfast isready, I guide her to the table, my hand at the small of her back, careful not to throw her off balance with the crutches.

"Your dining room awaits, Chef Blackwood," I say, pulling out her chair with a little flourish.

She eases into it with a grimace, propping her injured ankle on the chair I've positioned across from her. I set our plates down and take my seat beside her, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.

"This looks incredible," I say, cutting into the stack of pancakes. The first bite confirms it—fluffy, buttery perfection. "Fuck, Monica. This is amazing. Like, restaurant-quality amazing."

She smiles, a genuine one that reaches her eyes and softens her whole face. "Just pancakes."

"Not just pancakes. Your pancakes." I take another bite, savoring the subtle hint of vanilla and cinnamon. "And has anyone ever told you how goddamn beautiful you are in the morning? Because they should have."

She rolls her eyes, but I notice the slight smile on her lips as she fiddles with her fork. "I'm in pajamas with bedhead and a broken ankle. Hardly cover model material."

"And you're still stunning." I reach over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "I mean it. Most beautiful woman I've ever seen, especially like this—no makeup, just you."

"You're ridiculous," she mutters, but she's smiling.

"I'm serious. Beautiful and talented." I gesture to my nearly empty plate. "Where did you learn to cook like this? These aren't restaurant pancakes. These are something else entirely."

"My grandmother," she says softly. "Sunday mornings were sacred in her house. I learned all her tips and tricks over the years."

I reach for her hand across the table, squeezing gently. "Well, she taught you well."

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