Page 92 of Twisted Truths

He nods. “Shane caught up with Levi. Told him about Crawley.”

“And me?” I guess.

“And you,” Nash confirms, running a hand over his face. He looks so tired.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, running my fingers over the stuffed toys in the box.

“What are you apologising for?” he asks, surprise coating his tone.

“I feel like I’m complicating your life.”

He pulls me into his arms. “You’re the only uncomplicated thing in my life right now.”

I lift my head, and he leans down to capture my lips in a soft kiss. It’s over far too quickly, and he rests his forehead against mine.

He swipes his thumb over my bottom lip, his warm breath fanning my flushed skin when he says, “I wouldn’t have gotten through today without you. Hell, I wouldn’t have made itthrough these past few days. You’re my light in the dark, little possum.”

My heart swells at his words. His nickname wraps around something fragile inside my chest and holds me steady. I’ve been lost for so long, drifting, but I finally feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be. The way Nash looks at me, like I’m not just a distraction from the pain, but something real, makes me feel whole again. For the first time in my life, I feel hope.

Casting a look around the half-empty room filled with boxes, he sighs. “This can wait. I need a distraction.” My stomach flutters as I let him pull me from Rylan’s room, but I’m surprised when we end up in the kitchen.

Nash releases my hand, and I lean against the bench as he pulls out ingredients—flour, sugar, cocoa powder, choc chips, butter, and eggs.

“You want to bake?” I ask when he places a mixing bowl and baking tray next to me.

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a cheeky grin I’ve never seen on him before. My pulse spikes, a rush of warmth washing over me at the way he’s trying to create something normal in a world that’s anything but. “I thought we could use something sweet after the emotional rollercoaster of today.”

My chest squeezes at the thought. He’s grieving, bleeding on the inside, and yet here he is, trying to bake cookies or brownies or whatever these ingredients will turn into.

“You’re going to have to show me what to do,” I tell him. “I’ve never baked before.”

He arches a brow. “Never?”

“Never,” I confirm.

“Well, little possum,” he says, tossing me a measuring cup like it’s a challenge. “Time to get your hands dirty.”

I catch it—barely—and move to his side. He shows me how to mix the dry ingredients, but as I’m pouring the flour into the sieve,my hand slips and white powder puffs up into the air … and all over my face.

Nash bursts out laughing, a deep, rich sound that fills the room.

“What?” I say, cheeks heating as I brush at my face.

“You’ve got flour—” he reaches out and swipes his thumb gently across my nose.

“You’re not a very good instructor,” I grumble, scrunching my face.

He laughs again.

“Or maybe you’re just chaos in the kitchen.”

I dip my hand in the bag of flour and flick it at his shirt. “Oops.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “Oh, you’re dead.”

He grabs a bit of cocoa powder and swipes it across my cheek.

I squeal and grab the first thing my fingers land on, which happens to be an egg, and before I can think about what I’m doing, I reach up and smash it on his head. The gooey mess trickles through his curls, and I can’t stop the surprised squeak of laughter that escapes my lips as I stare at him in disbelief.