Page 143 of Eternal
“Oh, really? And how exactly are you‘helping’?”
I lean back in the chair, and smile. “I’m providing moral support,” I say, completely serious. “This looks like a delicate operation. I wouldn’t want to throw off your perfect process.”
“You know, I hate you, right?”
I laugh, and it's a little mocking. “Yeah, I know. I’m enjoying the view, can’t help it.”
She shoots me a glare, but it’s half-hearted, like she can’t decide whether to be pissed or amused. “So, that’s it, you’re simply gonna sit there, watch me work, and laugh at me?”
“Exactly,” I say, not even bothering to hide the grin spreading across my face. “You’re doing fine on your own. Besides, watching you get all flustered is the best part of being here.”
She stops for a second, one hand on her hip as she turns to face me. “Flustered? I’m not flustered. I’m just?—”
“Just what?” I tease, leaning forward and hooking my fingers between the waistband of her shorts and her hips, pulling her a little closer. She narrows her eyes, but there’s a flicker of laughter in them. “Just making the most complicated dish in the world for some ungrateful guy who won’t lift a finger?”
“Staring at my ass first then mocking my kindness?” she mutters. Then she glances down, eyes flicking to my hand. “And why is your hand on my skin, you creep?”
I smirk, holding her gaze. “What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine, partner. So technically, I’m touchingmyskin.”
She lets out a dramatic sigh and turns back to the stove, but I catch the way her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.
“God, you’re tiring,” she mutters, shaking her head.
“Excuse me?” I raise an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She doesn’t reply, but I can tell she’s biting back a laugh.
Voron might be my kind of kryptonite. Maybe this is a test, from whoever the fuck is watching, to see if I’m a machine or if there’s something human left in me.
Because she’s my favorite distraction. The kind that doesn’t only pull your focus, it keeps it. She’s like an unsteady rhythm in my chest, not the anxious kind, but the rush that comes whenyou’re on the edge of something you want. When you know you shouldn’t reach for it, but you ache to.
And that’s the truth.
Watching her like this so focused, it does something to me. Even when she’s mad at me, even when she doesn’t realize how deep she’s already in my head. There’s no way I’m letting her go easily.
Hours pass in conversation, her voice soft, gentle, explaining the spices she uses, techniques to make sure everything is okay, making me watch, and I do. I watch the way her hands move, the way her eyes flicker with something knowing, the way she doesn’t hesitate before shoving me out of the kitchen and telling me to sit.
And I listen.
When she finally brings the plates, I let my gaze drop to the dish in front of me, the scent fills the room, warm, savory. Andshemade it. Forme.
I want to say something. Anything.
But the words get stuck in my throat.
She doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she does and still lets me sit in it.
I shift, force myself to pick up my fork. But instead of eating, I watch her. Like a fucking creep. I watch the way her lashes cast shadows against her cheek, the way her scar reddens slightly in the warmth of the kitchen, the way that tiny dimple flickers at the corner of her mouth when she presses her lips together.
She looks up suddenly, catching me. I don’t look away.
And for some reason, neither does she.
Something settles between us. Something warm, somethingours.
I lean back in the chair, staring at the bowl in front of me.Mansaf.
Never had it before, and I’m not sure what to expect. She places it in front of me, then slides into her seat across from me. Her eyes are on me, waiting for a reaction.
