Page 60 of The Baby Dragon Bakery
Lavinia’s blood pounded as she leaned toward him, resting her left hand on his shoulder. His skin was hot, searing into her palm. Her hand looked so small along the curve of his shoulder, her thumb pressed against the hollow of his throat. She wanted to trail a finger down the slope of his long throat, to trail it lower, over his chest, lower to—
Lavinia shook her head. She swore internally, forcing herself to focus. Carefully, she wiped at the blood on his face. She cleaned his face up slowly, getting a new paper towel when the previous one turned red. The apartment was quiet, save for the sound of his ragged breathing—or was that hers? She couldn’t tell.
They had known each other for most of their lives, and she thought she knew everything there was to know about him, all his behavioral patterns and thoughts and feelings, how he would act and react—but this was uncharted territory.
That scared her, but it thrilled her, too, in a deranged way; the way lightning might be exhilarating, despite all the ways it could devastate.
After dipping a new paper towel into the water, she dabbed at the cut on his lip.
He hissed, grabbing her wrist. Her stomach flipped, heat burning through her body. He opened his eyes, and she saw that his pupils were blown wide, his eyes completely dark.
From this close, she could see herself reflected in the dark pools of his eyes. Her chest ached. His thumb pressed hard into the pulse of her wrist, eliciting a delicious sort of pain, and she dropped the paper towel, gasping.
The sound was loud in his quiet apartment, and at the noise, his gaze flicked down to her open mouth, making desire hum through her. He brought his eyes back up to meet hers, their gazes locking.
They were both wholly unmoving, staring at each other. His hand was still gripping her wrist, her hand hovering just above his lips. If she curled her fingers, they would be in his mouth.
But then he let go, and her hand dropped. She moved back.
“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.
“Of course,” she squeaked. Her face was burning from both desire and shame, and she turned, not wanting him to see either.
She grabbed the dirty paper towels and bowl of water, going to the kitchen. Running her hands under cold water, she washed them, thankful for the sound of the running tap as she tried to catch her breath.
After a few moments, she turned the tap off and went to the fridge. When she opened the doors, cold air kissed her cheeks, helping her cool off. She looked around for something to eat, then spotted a familiar box. Pulling it out, she opened the container to find matar chawal, a brothy rice dish with peas.
“Did my mother make this?” Lavinia asked, turning around. Theo got up from the couch and came over. He sat down on the stool in front of the counter on the perimeter of the kitchen, across from where she was at the fridge.
“She dropped it off a few days ago,” Theo said. His face was mostly cleaned up now, which made it easier to look at him without it hurting so much.
Despite the charged moment between them, Lavinia forced herself to act normal. “I waswonderingwhere those leftovers went!” Lavinia shook her head. A corner of Theo’s mouth tilted into a smile. “I’ll warm this up.”
She made them both plates for dinner, pairing the rice with keema, the minced meat dish also from Beena. She warmed up their plates in the microwave, then sat down on the stool beside him at the counter. They ate in silence, though neither of them really ended up eating much, Theo even less than her.
“I’m going to my room,” he said, getting up.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll make you haldi doodh.”
He nodded, not saying anything as he walked to his room, disappearing inside. Lavinia released a long breath, then went to the kitchen, warming up milk with turmeric. She didn’t really think it did anything, but Beena always made Lavinia drink haldi doodh when she was sick. It was kind of gross, but the warm milk was always comforting, and Lavinia snuck some honey in, too.
After the milk was ready, she brought it over to Theo’s room in a mug. He was already in bed, lying down in the middle, staring up at the ceiling.
She set the mug on his side table, looking at him. He looked so . . .sad.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, heart aching. She hated to see him in pain.
He didn’t speak, as if he couldn’t. She drew closer and saw that his eyes were wet.
Finally, he whispered, “It hurts, Lav.” His chin trembled, and she wanted to cry.
Lavinia sat down on the edge of his bed. “Hey,” she said, squeezing his arm. “It’s going to be okay. Promise.”
He closed his eyes as if she didn’t understand. And maybe she didn’t. She surely felt lost in a labyrinth of complex emotions, both his and hers. But she did mean what she said. Things would be okay. They had to be.
“Try and get some sleep,” she said. She hated the sight of the cut on his lips, the tense furrow between his brows.
She brushed his wavy hair to the side, her hand lingering on his face. Her fingers twitched; she wanted to touch the soft pad of his lips.
