Page 99 of Unrequited
“But you don’t.”
“I can’t.”
And I get that. He’s not wired for faith, not when all he’s ever known is betrayal and survival. Hope isn’t a luxury he trusts.
Thunder crashes above us, so loud and sudden, it jerks me back into my body. I flinch.
He chuckles deeply and pulls me tighter. “Just thunder, baby,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I know,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, lightning splits the sky again, so close it feels like it might tear the roof off. “It just seems… close.”
“It is close,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping the windowpane. Outside, the sky has darkened, thick storm clouds blotting out the light. Then comes the rain, sharp, sudden, relentless. It lashes against the glass like it's trying to claw its way in.
“Good,” he says, more to himself than to me, as if he’s pleased. “We might lose power. But it’ll buy us time.”
Then he turns, his eyes catching the soft lamplight, and there's that glint again. That crooked, wicked gleam that lives in his smile like a secret only I know. The devil incarnate, grinning just for me. “My father’s men don’t like the rain.”
“Good,” I echo, mirroring his grin with one of my own. It’s slower, warmer, a touch more dangerous. “Gives us a little time together.”
“Aye,” he rumbles, leaning in close, brushing his lips right against my cheek in a gesture that’s more possessive than tender. “A little time to make that baby.”
A flush blooms low and heavy in my belly, heat spreading like honey on hot skin, thick and unhurried. I match his grin without hesitation.
“Aye,” I whisper back, letting the word roll from my tongue just like I know he loves it, soft and Irish and laced with something more than just affection.
He chuckles, a gravelly sound that stirs something primal in my chest.
“But first,” he says, stepping back just enough to flash me a look. “Let’s eat. I’m famished. Let me cook for you this time,” he offers, a little too eager, like he’s trying to prove something. There’s affection behind the offer, sure, but also mischief.
I try, god, I try, not to grimace. But my face betrays me, and he sees it, clear as day.
He throws his head back and laughs. A real one, deep, rich, and unfiltered. It fills the room and warms the air.
“Come on now. You can teach me, can’t you? Just rest a bit, love. I can handle pasta. Who can fuck up pasta?”
“Who indeed?” I mutter under my breath, smirking. I swat his ass as he turns toward the kitchen, and he yelps, grinning like a lunatic.
He pulls out a box of pasta, some off-brand thing I’ve never seen before, chucks it in a pot, and sets it to boil.
Five minutes later, it’s chaos.
Somehow, he burns it. I don't even know how. One minute, the water's simmering like it should be, and the next, the fire alarm is wailing. And right in the middle of the madness, he grabs me and kisses me like the world’s ending, and our food isn’t ruined.
I double over laughing, uncontrollably, nearly wheezing. I almost pee myself from how baffled he looks, standing there with a wooden spoon like it's betrayed him.
“What the hell did I do wrong?” he says, dragging a hand through his hair.
“You let yourself get distracted by your new wife.” I giggle, still catching my breath.
He groans like a man suffering in silence. “Fine. We’ll come to an agreement. You cook, I clean, for all the meals, eh?”
“I like that deal,” I say, my lips curling into something sly.
He pops open a bottle of red, something dark and probably expensive, and pours us each a glass. I rummage through his cabinets, find some meat in the fridge, a can of tomatoes, and a head of garlic that looks half alive. The basics. A few minutes later, the kitchen is thick with the smell of onions sautéing in butter, the beef browning in a swirl of herbs and cracked pepper.
“Simple food’s the best food,” I tell him, stirring the sauce.
“It is,” he agrees, watching me like I’ve conjured some form of edible magic.
