Wildfire

Chapter 39

39. Tick

Morning light was shining through the curtains when I woke. There was a stillness in the air, like the tension from last night had dissipated entirely, leaving a path of serenity in its wake. I wasn't deluded enough to think that just because Diego and I had sex, everything would somehow, miraculously, be okay — but I felt different.

I had been physically close to people before. I'd lost my virginity in high school to Michael — but even then, I had never felt like this. Like my wrists were wrapped with invisible cords, tying me irrevocably to the man at my back.

It scared the hell out of me, knowing that this wasn't something I could just cut and run from.

I was involved now, one hundred per cent.

My thoughts drifted lazily, playing with images of last night and daydreams of what a future would look like... if we ever made it. For once, I didn't worry. I didn't overthink.

When Diego's stomach growled in his sleep, I pushed myself up off the bed and grabbed the clothes I'd discarded last night. Diego didn't stir, his face mashed into one of the pillows and the duvet strewn haphazardly over his torso. For once, he looked... peaceful.

I padded into the kitchen and headed for the fridge. I couldn't help but compare the cupboards in his little kitchenette to the first time I'd gone through them, looking for alcohol. There was enough food to feed an entire family for a month packed into them now and the fridge was overflowing. His apartment was starting to seem more... lived-in.

I set about making breakfast, careful not to think about anything but the task at hand.

When Diego finally emerged from the bedroom, the omelettes were almost ready and I had two packets-worth of sausages waiting for him on a plate.

He eyed me warily as he approached, one hand rubbing absently at the back of his head. "You okay?"

I got the impression that it wasn't just a surface question. I nodded slowly and adjusted the dial on the stove. "I'm good. You?"

"I'm good."

I pushed the plate of sausages toward him. "Eat up."

"Yes, ma'am." The hint of a smile played at his lips. Instead of moving into the living area, he grabbed a fork and leaned over the counter, watching me as I scraped an omelette onto my own plate. I could tell he was holding himself back, that he wanted to say something — but I had no idea how to indicate that it was okay. I felt like we were still hovering in that in-between place, waiting for something to tip us either way.

The last time we'd been here, he told me he loved me.

Since that hadn't exactly gone down well, it left the ball in my court.

I stepped back from the stove, carrying the frying pan over to the countertop. I pushed his omelette onto his plate.

"I know it's not much, but we can always get brunch later if you're still hungry," I said. "I'm still not sure what qualifies as 'enough' for lupi stomachs."

"It's enough." Diego reached out, brushing a strand of my hair back from my face. My stomach fluttered at the affectionate gesture and I found myself leaning into his touch before I could help it. This wasn't something I was familiar with — spontaneous displays of affection. It felt... weird. "Thank you."

I smiled and reached for my own fork. "It's just breakfast."

He shook his head. "No, it's not."

He didn't elaborate, but then, he didn't need to. I think I understood exactly what he meant.

After breakfast, I went for a shower while he washed up. I threw on the cleanest clothes I could find but I was starting to feel grubby, re-using the same tops over and over.