Page 108 of Unbroken
“You’re shaking.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
I don’t have anything brave to say. No bite. No barbed-wire wit. I told him I wanted to run, told him I wanted to hide,but now the future ahead of us—for many reasons—seems uncertain and scary.
I just whisper, “I don’t know how to come down.”
He nods like he gets it. Of course he does. He’s lived in war longer than I have.
“Then don’t,” he says. “Just sit. Let me.”
He stands and walks into the kitchen. I expect him to disappear into tactical planning, into his endless storm of protective rage.
But instead?—
He opens a cabinet, pulls out a box of pasta, and tosses it on the counter. Grabs a pan like it’s a regular Tuesday.
“You’re… making dinner?” I ask, voice still wrecked.
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He gives me a look that would scare actual criminals. “Doesn’t matter. You need to eat, baby.”
Baby.Sigh.A bit of my invisible armor slides off me. I’m safe here. I’m with Vadka.
The water boils, and he works in silence. Measured, methodical. His sleeves are rolled up, arms dusted with flour by the time he’s chopping something green and pretending he’s not watching me through the corner of his eye.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” I murmur.
He shrugs. “Basic survival.”
“Isn’t that what takeout’s for?”
He turns his head just enough for me to see the smirk.
It’s barely there. But I feel it like sunlight on cold skin.
He plates it—two bowls, one smaller for Luka if he wakes—and brings it to me like it’s sacred.
I take one bite and have to close my eyes.
It’s not gourmet. Not even that well-seasoned.
But it’s warm and delicious, and Iamhungry.
He sits beside me, legs spread wide, one hand resting on the couch behind me like a bracket. Not touching. Just close enough that I can lean closer if I want.
So I do.
I sink against him, cheek to his shoulder. His other hand finds my thigh and stays there. Steady. Warm.
We eat in silence.
I let myself breathe.
I don’t know how to tell him what I fear. We’ve already been through so much.
