Page 263 of Ruin Me Gently

“You’re making breakfast?”

I smirked, flipping another pancake. “I had a breakdown. You had a breakdown. Felt like a pancakes kind of morning.”

Last night, before Silas’ confessional in the office, I’d woken up gasping, chest tight, the phantom weight of one of the most intense nightmares I’d ever had wrapping itself around me like smoke. I’d stumbled outside like some kind of indie movie cliché, barefoot and half-dressed, and laid down in the rooftop garden, letting the rain hammer down on me until I couldn’t feel anything but cold. It was stupid, probably. But in that moment, it felt… right. Like maybe the sky could wash it all away. The panic, the dread, the mess of thoughts that kept piling higher and higher in my head.

Before I could even plate the next one, he was there—warm, solid, wrapping himself around me. His arms slid around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, his lips pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the scar on my temple.

“Good morning,” he murmured against my skin.

Warmth unfurled in my chest, but I swallowed it down, determined not to burn the pancake I was about to flip. “Good morning. Now go sit down.”

He didn’t argue, just gave my waist a slow squeeze before stepping back and heading toward the island.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“Yes, please.”

I turned toward his stupidly fancy, unnecessarily high-tech coffee machine.

The stool creaked as he got up. “Here, let me do it.”

“Down boy. Don’t micromanage my domestic goddess moment.” I frowned. “Oh shit—actually, can you pass me two mugs?”

Before I even finished the sentence, two mugs appeared over my shoulder.

“Jesus,” I muttered, taking them without looking. “That was fast.”

Weight pressed against the top of my head, and I realised he was resting his chin there. My brain short-circuited.

“Shit—sorry, can you pass me the oat milk too?”

Without a word, the carton appeared beside me, and I grabbed it, pouring in the right amount, and trying to ignore the fact that he was still hovering over me like a human blanket.

“And honey?”

Another pause, then a small glass jar was placed directly in front of me.

“Do you just have an unlimited supply of things in your hands at all times?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “I pay attention.”

“Hmm. Is that right?” I said as I passed him his coffee before taking a slow sip from mine and tilting my head toward the stool he’d abandoned. “Alright, sit back down.”

He lifted a brow before settling back onto the stool as I slid a plate of pancakes in front of him.

Perfectly golden, fluffy, and an absolute miracle considering I’d had to frantically search the recipe online and pray to the pancake gods that I wouldn’t set his penthouse on fire.

I slid onto the stool beside him and took a bite from my own stack.

“Mmm. Fuck, this is good,” he hummed.

I hid my smile behind a bite, savouring the warmth of it, the sweetness of the syrup.

His hand landed on my thigh. And a second later, the stool scraped softly against the floor as he scooted closer, his knee pressing against mine, his fingers flexing a little.

We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The soft clink of silverware and the faint hum of the air conditioning was enough between us.

When we’d finished eating, I stacked the empty plates and slid off the stool. I barely made it two steps before I felt him behind me again.

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