Page 57 of King of Pain
I glance at the screen and raise an eyebrow. “Really? The ‘What’s your damage?’ movie? A little on the nose, don’t you think?”
Chance throws his head back and laughs, the sound loud and genuine. It’s so unexpected that I can’t help but let out a small chuckle of my own.
“I love when you come out of nowhere with your twisted sense of humor, Pacini,” he says, nudging me lightly with his elbow.
I let the comment hang in the air, the warmth of his laughter easing some of the tension in my chest.
“For real, though,” Chance says, his tone softening. “If you ever want to talk about your damage, I’m here.”
His words land harder than I expect, and I glance at him, my emotions raw. I manage a weak smile, my eyes wet. He holds my gaze for a moment before looking away, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks.
“Let’s watch this movie and get you back to sleep,” he says, breaking the moment.
The movie plays in the background as the tequila works its magic. My eyelids grow heavy, the tension in my body fading as exhaustion takes over. Before I know it, I’m drifting off, leaning toward the sound of Chance’s steady breathing beside me. I barely register Chance slipping the glass out of my hand before darkness takes me.
The first thing I notice when I stir awake is the steady rise and fall beneath my cheek. My head is resting on Chance's bare chest, his arm draped loosely around me. His soft, even breaths brush against my hair, his chin resting lightly on the top of myhead. For a couple minutes, I lie still, my heart pounding in my ears. It’s warm, comfortable and safe.
But the awareness of where I am, of who I’m with, rushes in, and I carefully shift out of his hold. Chance murmurs something in his sleep but doesn’t wake. I stand at the edge of the couch for a moment, looking down at him, his features relaxed and peaceful. He looks so different like this, so unguarded, and it makes something in my chest yearn.
I need to do something. Something to steady myself.
I pad softly into the kitchen, careful not to disturb him, and start pulling ingredients out of the fridge. Cooking always grounds me. And after last night, after everything he’s done for me, it’s the least I can do.
I quietly take Little G out to do his business, then get started on breakfast.
About thirty minutes later, the smell of coffee and sizzling bacon fills the apartment. I flip a batch of roasted garlic and onion skillet potatoes before pouring some eggs into a pan. I sprinkle in some fresh herbs, letting the familiar movements settle my nerves.
The nightmare still lingers at the edges of my mind, the echoes of that voice clawing at my thoughts, but focusing on the food keeps them at bay.
The sound of shuffling feet makes me glance over my shoulder. Chance walks into the kitchen, his hair messy from sleep, rubbing his eyes with one hand while the other runs down over his abs. I turn back to the stove before my thoughts wander too far.
“Morning,” I say, trying to sound casual as I sprinkle goat cheese onto the eggs.
“Morning, Beautiful,” he replies, his voice gravelly and low, making my stomach flip.
He inhales deeply, the scent of food waking him up. “What’s all this?”
“Breakfast,” I say, shrugging. “Figured I owed you one after waking you up in the middle of the night.”
He crosses the kitchen, grabs a mug from the cabinet, and pours himself some coffee. He leans against the counter, watching me. “You owe me nothing, Ant. But I’m not about to complain.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to the stove, rolling the herb and goat cheese omelet and plating the bacon. “Go sit. I’m almost done.”
“Yes, Chef,” he teases, grinning as he takes his coffee to the table.
As I finish plating breakfast, my phone buzzes on the counter. Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I glance down to see an email alert. Opening the app, my eyes scan the message from Student Housing. My shoulders sag as I huff out a frustrated breath and toss the phone back onto the counter with a little more force than necessary.
Chance looks up from his coffee, his brows furrowing in concern. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s an email from the university about the housing situation,” I explain, rubbing the back of my neck. “They still don’t have any openings, and the repairs are going to take weeks. I just... I don’t know how much longer this is going to drag on.”
Chance leans back in his chair, a soft smile spreading across his face. “Hey, no need to get worked up about it, Ant. I’m in no rush for you to go. Plus, I already told my landlord you might be here for a while, and they were totally cool about it. Besides...” He smirks, his voice dropping into the teasing tone that always dances its way under my skin and into my chest. “I wouldn’t want to lose my personal chef now, would I?”
I breathe out a quiet sigh of relief and nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “Thanks,” I manage.
Chance waves it off, his grin as easy as ever. “Don’t mention it, really.”
When I bring over the plates, Chance looks up at me, his blue eyes bright and grateful, as I set a heaping plate of food in front of him.
