I focus on fluffing the rice with a fork, watching the steam curl into the air, trying to push it away. But it’s no use.
Because the truth is, I don’t know what scares me more—the idea that Ezra is exactly who I thought he was.
Or the possibility that he’s something more.
My feelings toward him have shifted, haven’t they? I don’t know when it happened. Maybe during the storm, maybe even before that.
But it’s there, undeniable and unrelenting.
His darkness doesn’t scare me. What terrifies me is how much I want to step into it.
I’m so lost in my thoughts I don’t hear him come in. It’s not until I feel his arms around my waist, his hard body pressing against mine from behind, that I realize he’s awake.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
I stiffen at first, startled, but then I relax, leaning back against him. “Morning.”
His lips brush against my neck. “You’re up early,” he says, his hands sliding down to rest on my hips.
Making someone feel like this first thing in the morning should be illegal.
“You looked like you needed the sleep,” I say softly, turning my attention back to the stove. “Figured I’d make breakfast.”
He hums, his lips lingering against my skin. “I could get used to this,” he says, and there’s something in his tone—something warm and teasing—that makes my heart skip a beat.
I don’t respond. I can’t. Because if I do, I might say something I’m not ready to admit yet.
I could get used to this too.
Instead, I focus on the food, trying to ignore the way his presence sets my skin on fire.
But it’s no use.
He’s everywhere—his warmth, his scent, his voice—and I don’t ever want him to let go.
He leans down, his chin resting on my shoulder, watching as I stir the beans in the pot. “This is nice,” he says, and there’s a softness in his voice that tugs at something deep inside me.
“It’s just rice and beans,” I mutter, but my skin feels hot.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Feels… normal.”
Normal.
The word hits me harder than I expect, and I realize how much I’ve craved that, too.
A moment where the chaos fades, and we’re just two people in a kitchen, making breakfast.
“Do you miss it?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Miss what?”
“Normal.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I feel him shift behind me, his arms tightening slightly around my waist. “I don’t think I ever really had it,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.
I wait, letting the silence stretch, hoping he’ll fill it. And he does.
“Mornings when I was young looked more like closed doors and hushed voices than a mother cooking over a stove,” he continues. “Breakfast was whatever I could grab before I left. And dinner... if my father wasn’t home, it was quiet. If he was...” He trails off, but I hear so much more in his silence.
