Page 59 of Make Me Yours
Despite everything, a laugh slips free from me. It’s half-mortified and half-relieved. I step aside, giving him room to maneuver. He grabs a fork and starts whisking the rest of the eggs with practiced ease, completely unfazed by his lack of clothing.
I try not to stare, and fail spectacularly.
When he turns his back to me, I let my gaze wander for just a few greedy seconds. I’m struck by the wide spread of his shoulders and the subtle flex of his forearms as he moves. And don’t even get me started on the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
These aren’t things I’ve ever noticed before.
Or maybe I have and I just didn’t allow myself to see them.
“I didn’t realize you had skills outside of hockey,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
He glances at me from over his shoulder as a lazy, knowing smile tugs at his lips. “Don’t fool yourself, lucky charm. I’ve got lots of hidden skill sets. And I’m more than happy to show them off. All you have to do is say the word.”
My eyes widen as heat creeps up the back of my neck, and I get the distinct feeling we’renottalking about scrambled eggs anymore.
“I believe you,” I say, hoping it comes off playful, and not like I’m barely holding it together.
This conversation feels all sorts of dangerous.And yet, some reckless, curious part of me is tempted to push it further.
But I don’t.
Are you kidding?
Of course I don’t.
Because even with the air thick between us, crackling with things neither of us are saying, I’m still afraid of what it could mean if we cross that line.
So instead, I pivot, pointing to the eggs in the pan. “Better watch those, or they’ll burn.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” he says, refocusing his attention.
We move around each other, falling into an easy rhythm that’s comfortably domestic.
It shouldn’t feel like this.
Like home.
All I can think about is how different this is from what I had with Devon, who never once stood beside me while I cooked or asked how I liked my eggs or teased me just to see me smile.
With Steele, it feels like he sees all of me.
Even the parts I’m careful to keep hidden away.
The tension between us is still there, coiled and pulsing, but it’s gentler now. Like it’s shifted from wildfire to something that’s more of a slow burn.
He pours the eggs into the pan and then starts stirring. I grab plates, trying to distract myself with tasks that don’tinvolve ogling him or confessing things I’m not ready to reveal.
“Thanks for helping,” I say after a moment.
His shoulder bumps mine. “Always.”
That one word lands deep. It echoes in the part of me that’s still trying to figure out what steady looks like.
Because Steele, standing here in the kitchen, making breakfast like we’ve done this a hundred times before, feels precariously close to something permanent.
That’s when I realize I never asked how he’s doing.
Oh my God.
