"I need to cut the vegetables."
"Put it down before you hurt yourself."
She stares at the knife like she doesn't recognize what it is. Then slowly, mechanically, she sets it on the counter. Her hands are shaking so badly she can barely let go.
I move behind her, bracketing her against the counter with my body but not touching her. Close enough to feel her heat, her tension, but giving her space to breathe.
"Talk to me," I murmur near her ear. "Tell me what's going on in that head of yours."
"Nothing's going on."
"That's a lie."
"Zay, please?—"
"You've been avoiding me all week," I continue, keeping my voice low, calm. "Every time I try to talk to you, really talk to you, you find an excuse to leave. You kiss me like you're trying to distract me. You won't let me in."
"That's not true."
"Yes, it is." I let my hands rest lightly on her hips, feeling her stiffen. "And I need to know why. I need to know what happened at the Vipers that broke you."
"Nothing broke me," she insists, but her voice is hollow.
"Val." I press closer, my chest against her back, and feel her breath catch. "Please. Let me help."
"You can't help with this."
"Try me."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I think maybe she's going to tell me. Maybe she's finally going to let down whatever wall she's built between us. But then she turns in my arms, presses her palms flat against my chest, and looks up at me with those haunted eyes.
"Can we just—" She swallows hard. "Can we just not talk? Please? I can't—I can't do this right now."
It's not what I want. Not even close. But I can see how close she is to shattering, and I don't want to be the one who pushes her over the edge.
"Okay," I agree softly. "We don't have to talk."
Relief floods her face. She rises up on her toes, presses her lips to mine. The kiss is desperate, urgent, like she's drowning and I'm air. Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer.
I let her lead for a moment, let her take what she needs. Then I slow it down, gentle my response, trying to inject some tenderness into the desperation. My hands slide from her hips to her waist, thumbs stroking slow circles through the hoodie.
She makes a small sound—need or frustration, I can't tell—and deepens the kiss. Her body presses against mine, all curves and heat and barely restrained energy.
"Val," I murmur against her mouth. "Slow down."
"Don't want to slow down," she breathes, already tugging at my shirt, pulling it from my jeans.
"Baby—"
"Please." She looks up at me and there's something raw in her eyes, something desperate. "I need—I need to feel something other than this. Please, Zay."
And fuck, how am I supposed to say no to that?
I spin us, press her back against the counter, and kiss her properly. Deep and thorough and possessive. She responds immediately, wrapping her arms around my neck, body molding to mine.
My hands slide under the hoodie—both hoodies, layers of fabric—finding bare skin underneath. She's so warm, so soft. She gasps into my mouth when my palms skim up her ribs, when my thumbs brush the underside of her breasts.
"Zay," she breathes.