Page 28 of Break the Ice
“What is it?”
“See for yourself.”
Inside, there’s a small universe of stationery. Pens, pencils, markers, watercolors, and a journal stitched with white and lilac irises. The same flowers he used to sneak from the church beds, tucked behind his back like contraband.
Something surges up and breaks over me—joy and ache in the same breath. Tears sting. I blink hard.
“You like it?”
“Yes.”
“You used to keep a journal, and I know how fishy out of water?—”
“Fishy out of water?” The snort escapes me before I can catch it, heat climbing my cheeks as fast as his climbs his.
“You know what I mean. It feels weird being here at first, so I figured you’d like somewhere to write it down, or… I don’t know… sketch, paint…”
“Thank you. It’s so thoughtful,” I say, inching closer as his fingertips ghost the back of my hand.
We hover in the quiet. I want him to step in, to close the last inch, to saysomething.His mouth is perfectly carved, his eyes dark and soft, and when his gaze drifts over my lips my heart tumbles.
He rakes a hand through his hair and frees the topknot, so it falls in damp tangles around his jaw. My breath stalls. He leans—not enough—and his fingers comb the messy strands over my shoulder, knuckles brushing my nape. Sparks skitter across my skin.
Please. Just kiss me.It’s been so long. Too long.
He’s close.
Closer—
And then he isn’t. The step he takes back tears a sound out of me I don’t recognize.
“I should shower,” he says.
I nod without trusting my voice and track him down the hall. The light licks at the damp on his shoulders, muscle catching and sliding under skin. My throat works.
“Hungry?” His breath hitches.
“Starving…”
“Good. Let me get showered and we’ll order something.”
He disappears, leaving me with the bag. I trace the stitched irises; the neat nibs lined in their tray.He thought of everything.I want to dive headfirst into it. Instead, I decide to do something for him.
I set the gift on the counter and knot the blanket neatly. The kitchen is quiet and orderly—Elijah neat to the bone. I open cupboards, check the fridge, gather bowls. The idea of warm batter and berries fills the space with something like home.
By the time he returns, the island is covered with the berries I sourced from his fridge. The other ingredients are missing; flour I don’t have, milk I don’t have, berries I do. He pauses, brows knitting as he takes in the lineup.
“What are you doing, Fin?”
“Looking for ingredients.”
“Ingredients?”
“For pancakes. You still eat pancakes, don’t you?”
His laugh warms the room, lights his eyes. “Your pancakes were my favorite part of Sunday Feast. Well, when you didn’t lace them with enough salt to float the Dead Sea.”
“It was one time, and it sure taught certain people that salty behavior is as tolerable as salt-burned tastebuds.”
