Page 96 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

The Vampire Diaries.

A smile tugs at my mouth. He hates this show. Which means he put it on for me. I will myself not to overthink it.

I’m not sure how much time passes before I notice the ice beginning to melt. I start to stand to take it back, but he says, “Leave it. I’ll do it.”

I ignore him, take the pack to the kitchen, and start making hot chocolate instead.

I realise, as I reach for the cocoa, that I’ve no idea how he actually likes it.

If I stop to think about it, I don’t know much about him at all. Every moment we’ve shared has been either a battle or a blaze, nothing in between.

So I make it the way I prefer it, rich, dark, with a hint of cinnamon.

When I return to the living room, I hand him one of the mugs. He glances at it, his brows drawing together as he peers inside.

“I don’t drink hot chocolate, Ophelia.”

The words sting more than I expect, and he knows it. His jaw tightens, irritation flickering in his eyes, tempered by something else.

Something that looks far too much like guilt.

Then, without another word, he lifts the mug and takes two immense gulps.

“Careful, it’s hot—”

He almost sputters, but somehow manages to swallow. I can tell it must have burned, though his expression doesn’t so much as flicker. Completely impassive, he simply says, “It’s good. Thank you.”

I can’t help it, I burst out laughing.

He gives me a look but doesn’t say a word.

We drink in silence, the fire crackling softly, until my gaze drifts back to his leg.

“Are you sure you don’t want something for the pain? That must hurt. I could bring more ice—”

Before I can stand, his hand closes around my wrist, pulling me back down. My cup wobbles but doesn’t spill.

“Ophelia,” he says quietly.

The sound of my name in his voice stills me. His eyes meet mine, unreadable, yet something almost… fragile flickers beneath the surface, something I’ve never seen in him before.

“Stop fussing,” he says. “I’m not used to it. It’s... strange. Being cared for.” A humourless curve touches his mouth. “And it pisses me the fuck off.”

“What do you mean?” I ask softly.

He exhales, a low sound that almost passes for a laugh. “Exactly what I said.”

I hesitate. “What about your parents? They must’ve… maybe they—”

His expression hardens, a shadow drifts over his features. “My mother died giving birth to me.”

For a moment, I forget to breathe. He says it so casually, yet the pain beneath it is unmistakable, even as he tries to hide it.

I know there’s a lot more to untangle in that one sentence. But looking at him, I also know he won’t do it with me, now… maybe not ever.

I reach out, brushing my fingers against his cheek. “You know you’re not to blame, right?”

I don’t know why I feel the need to say the words, but I do.