I grab the pan and slide it off the burner. The flame dies. The eggs survive. Barely. My heart is trying to exit my body.
Behind me, a voice says, “I go to sleep for ten minutes and you start a war.”
I yelp and spin around.
Chase is standing in the doorway, hair rumpled, T-shirt twisted, eyes sleepy and amused and very much taking in the disaster scene.
“Hi,” I say weakly.
He looks from the flour. To the counter. To the pan of suspicious eggs. To me. “Should I call the fire department or just a priest?” he asks.
“I was trying to do something nice,” I say. “The kitchen fought back.”
He steps in, picks up a towel, and gently brushes flour off my shoulder. “You look like you lost a duel with a bag of carbs.”
“I didn’t win,” I admit.
His mouth twitches. “I can see that.”
“I wanted to make you breakfast,” I say. “Because I’m… you know… grateful. And stuff.”
“And stuff,” he repeats, smiling now. “That’s my favorite category.”
I gesture helplessly. “I think the eggs are… edible? In a very loose, legal sense.”
He peers into the pan. “They’ve been through something.”
“So have I.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. The kind that starts in his chest and makes his shoulders shake a little.
And somehow, instead of being embarrassed, I feel… warm.
“Come here,” he says, taking the spatula from me and setting the pan aside. “I’ll make us real food. You can be my moral support.”
“I’m very good at moral support,” I say. “Less good at heat.”
He moves around the kitchen with easy confidence, pulling out fresh eggs, starting over, rescuing the toaster situation like a hero in a very domestic action movie.
I lean against the counter and watch him. And yeah. I’m gone. Completely, hopelessly, romcom-level gone. Because he didn’t make fun of me. Didn’t get annoyed. Didn’t sigh like I’m extra work. He just… took over and smiled like my chaos is something he’s willing to live with.
He glances over his shoulder. “You okay over there?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I just… really like it here.”
He pauses for half a second, then nods. “Me too.”
And for the first time since everything went sideways… I believe that maybe this—this messy, flour-covered, egg-fighting morning—is the start of something really, really good.
EIGHTEEN
CHASE
Fiona is standing in the middle of my kitchen like she’s auditioning for the role ofDomestic Disaster Princess.
There’s flour in her hair. On her cheek. On the front of my shirt where she tried to “help” by hugging me like a flour bomb. Her eyes are wide and guilty and adorable, and I’ve seen men walk into a burning building with less fear than she has right now staring at that pan of ruined eggs.
I should be annoyed. However, I’m not. Instead, I’m… done for.