Page 72 of Unrequited

I cut him off when he pries, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch Zoya watching us through the window. Her eyes are wide, curious and wary, and I can’t help but wonder what she sees when she looks at me. The cutthroat commander? The man who gives orders like gospel?

But when I step inside, I soften. I give her the gentlest voice I’ve got. Like a skittish fawn, she’ll bolt if I raise it. I reach for her arm and brush my fingers over it, light as air.

“You hungry,love?”

She blinks once, then nods.

“All right, darling. Let’s get you snuggled up here. I’ll cook something.”

“You cook?” she asks, a tiny tilt to her lips. It's the first hint of anything playful since we got in the car. Back then, I could see it clear as day—she was bracing herself against me, building walls. I wasn’t sure if she’d ever forgive me for taking her from her family.

And I know what I did. Christ, I know. I shattered whatever future her brothers imagined. Burned their bridges to ash. There’ll be retaliation, eventually. But I’ve got to move first.

Right now, though, in the quiet shelter of my home, it feels like maybe, just maybe, we’re starting to patch things up. Starting to find our way back to something that once felt like hope.

Does she remember how she felt about me before I left? Because I remember every feckin' second I spent thinkin’ of her in that fuckin’ cell.

I shrug. “I try to cook. Know a little bit.” I scratch my head. “A bit shite at it, but you’ve had a long day. It’s all right. Sit down and I’ll fetch us some grub.”

“Seamus,” she says gently. “I’ve cooked for my entire family for years. I like doing it. I’m good at it. Just show me the kitchen.”

I shake my head, sharp, but not unkind.

“What did I say on the plane, Zoya?” I remind her, calm but firm.

She sighs and drops back onto the couch. Lips pursed, but she doesn’t fight me on it. I grunt under my breath and march into the kitchen.

And promptly make a goddamn mess. Haven’t done any shopping in a bit, so the choices are scant.

Burnt eggs. Dry toast. I even manage to butcher half the berries, tryin’ to slice them for the side. “Goddamn it,” I mutter. Should’ve just ordered food like a sane man.

She laughs. Finally. And Christ, it hits me square in the chest like a hammer. That sound. I love her laugh. And more than that, it means something. She’s relaxing. Letting her guard down.

Why does that matter so much to me?

“Seamus,” she says, getting up. The fire’s going, and she’s shrugged off the coat, still in her wedding dress. “Please, let me do this.”

She nudges me aside, and I let her.I let her. I don’t let anyone push me around. Haven’t since I was a lad, and only then ’cause mam had the final say.

I watch her, amused, as she puts on the kettle. Her movements are confident. Easy. Like she belongs.

The eggs come out perfect. The toast is golden and buttered. She works some kind of kitchen magic with the odds and ends in the fridge, turns the meal into a work of art.

“Here,” she says softly. “Let’s eat.”

She settles into one of the little chairs I pull out for her, and I sit across from her. The food’s brilliant, but I barely touchit because I’m too busy watching her. I feel as if I blink too hard or fall asleep, I’ll wake to find she’s vanished, that I only imagined her here with me.

“Something the matter?” she asks.

Is something the matter? Christ. The whole feckin’ world’s the matter. But none of that means anything right now. Now that she’s here with me.

I reach for her hand and brush my thumb over her knuckles.

“No, I just…” I look away, my throat tight. “I’ve made some terrible decisions. But this, you, this isn’t one of them.” My voice cracks.

“Be careful, Seamus,” she says, and her voice breaks too.

I tilt my head. “Why, lass?”