Page 6 of Salvation

I swallowed hard. Yeah, you do. “What are you making?”

He glanced over his shoulder, surprise flickering across his face at the sound of my voice. “Beef stew. And bread.” He gestured to the oven. “Nothing fancy.”

But it was fancy to me. I’d been stuck with institutional food at various boarding schools for about a decade, then it had been months of barely eating at all as I adjusted to the path my life had taken. Not to mention, my family had hired cooks. My mother wouldn’t have been caught dead in the kitchen except to bark orders at people. She might have been sweet to her daughters, but she tended to take out her frustration on the servants. These home-cooked meals had been a luxury.

You’d think after all this time I’d be used to it, but some part of me still worried it would all be yanked out of my hands at a moment’s notice.

Salvation returned to the stove, lifting the lid from the pot to stir the contents. The rhythmic motion of his arm, the concentration on his face as he tasted from the wooden spoon -- these small details fascinated me. Made my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Before I could second-guess myself, I pushed away from the table and approached the counter. I picked up a dish towel, folding and unfolding it between my fingers. “Can I help with anything?” I asked, my voice softer than I’d intended.

Salvation glanced up, his calm gaze meeting mine briefly before returning to the cutting board. “Just rest. I’ve got this,” he replied.

My shoulders dropped slightly. My fingers tightened on the towel. Of course. I should have expected that response. It was the same one he always gave me. “Right,” I said, hating the hint of disappointment that crept into my voice. I returned to the table, watching him work. The silence between us grew heavier, filled with all the things I couldn’t say. All the things he wouldn’t say.

Salvation moved to the sink, washing his hands before drying them on another towel. His wedding ring -- the simple gold band we’d bought outside the courthouse -- caught the light. A reminder of promises made, boundaries established. Although, at the time, I hadn’t realized our wedding had been faked. A hacker had taken care of everything, and the ceremony had been for show, mostly for me. It was one of the many kindnesses Salvation had given me in our years together.

“Should be ready in about ten minutes,” he said, breaking the silence.

I nodded, though he wasn’t looking at me. “It smells wonderful.”

A small smile touched his lips. “Clover’s favorite.”

Always about Clover. Never about us. I couldn’t blame him -- she was his daughter in all the ways that mattered. I was just… what? A responsibility? A charity case? A stranger he’d married to keep safe?

The thought stung, though I knew it wasn’t fair. Salvation had never pretended our arrangement was anything other than what it was. A marriage on paper. He’d never promised love, never suggested our relationship would evolve into something more intimate.

And yet… the way he sometimes looked at me when he thought I wouldn’t notice. The gentle care he took to never push me, never rush me. The way he’d touch my shoulder, just briefly, when passing by -- so careful, so restrained. All those things always gave me hope we could have something more.

I watched as he set plates on the counter, his movements efficient, practiced. There was something mesmerizing about his hands -- strong, capable, but never threatening. Never cruel.

So different from the hands that had hurt me before.

“Yulia?” His voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Everything okay?”

I blinked, realizing I’d been staring. Again. “Yes. Sorry. Just… thinking.”

He studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded and turned back to his task. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence. Outside, the sun had set, turning the kitchen window into a mirror that reflected our odd little tableau. Salvation at the stove, me at the table. Close enough to touch, separated by an invisible wall neither of us seemed able to breach.

If you don’t make a move, nothing will ever change. Clover’s words echoed in my mind. But what move could I make? How did one bridge such a gap? Especially when I wasn’t even sure what waited on the other side.

Salvation reached for the oven mitts, his shirt riding up again to reveal that same strip of skin. My pulse quickened. This attraction, this longing -- it had been growing for years. At first, I’d dismissed it as gratitude, as the natural response to being rescued. But it had deepened, evolved into something more complex. More terrifying.

I looked down at my hands, at the faint scars on my wrists. Reminders of a different life, a different Yulia. The girl who had given up. Who had seen no future worth living for. That girl would never have imagined sitting in this warm kitchen, watching this man, feeling this ache of wanting something more.

Maybe that was progress. Maybe that was enough. There was a chance it would have to be, that Salvation would never want anything more from me.

My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird. The words I needed to say had been building inside me for so very long. Simple words. Honest words. I want more. I feel something for you. This marriage doesn’t have to be just on paper.

My fingers twisted in my lap as I watched Salvation’s back, the steady movement of his shoulders as he worked. Just say it. The worst he can do is say no. But that wasn’t true. The worst he could do was look at me with pity. With regret. With the gentle rejection I’d seen him use on the club women who sometimes flirted with him.

I drew a deep breath, trying to calm the tremor in my hands. We couldn’t continue like this forever -- orbiting each other, never touching, never acknowledging the current that sometimes sparked between us when our gazes met. When our fingers accidentally brushed passing the salt. When he stood too close behind me, reaching for something on a high shelf.

Salvation turned to check the bread in the oven again. Now. Say it now.

My throat tightened. My pulse hammered in my ears, nearly drowning out the soft sounds of cooking. I licked my dry lips.

“Still need to set the table,” he said, not turning around.

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