chapter 74
Elena's POV:
I picked up the fork with deliberate slowness, acutely aware of Sebastian's expectant gaze tracking my every movement.
The first bite caught me off guard—not because it was terrible, but because it was surprisingly good.
The flavors were balanced, thoughtful even, though the execution betrayed an amateur's hand. Vegetables cut in uneven chunks, some pieces slightly overcooked while others retained too much crunch, the plating more earnest than elegant.
But it was exactly how I liked it.
The realization struck me as I found myself taking another bite, then another.
This wasn't restaurant perfection or chef-crafted precision—this was someone who had paid attention to my preferences, who had noticed I liked my vegetables slightly softer, my seasonings on the mild side, who remembered I pushed aside anything with too much garlic.
"It's... really good," I admitted, the words escaping before I could temper them with my usual guardedness.
Heat crept up my neck as I caught the pure satisfaction spreading across his features, transforming his usually sharp angles into something almost boyish.
"You like it," he said, and it wasn't a question but a quiet triumph, as if I'd handed him some precious gift instead of a simple acknowledgment of adequately prepared food.
He settled into his own chair with fluid grace, picking up his fork with obvious contentment, and began to eat with the measured pace of someone savoring victory rather than the meal itself.
I focused on my plate. The baby made me hungry in ways I couldn't control, and Sebastian's cooking—imperfect as it was—satisfied something beyond mere appetite.
Even the Brussels sprouts, which I normally pushed to the side with practiced subtlety, disappeared into my mouth without complaint. The green beans I usually found too stringy, the mushrooms whose texture typically made me grimace—all of it vanished from my plate.
My fork scraped against empty porcelain before I quite realized what had happened.
I stared at the clean plate with something approaching bewilderment, trying to remember the last time I'd finished everything set before me, let alone vegetables I'd spent a lifetime avoiding.
When I looked up, Sebastian had already set down his utensils, his own plate clean, and was watching me with an expression of such undisguised satisfaction that it made my cheeks burn.
His eyes held that particular warmth, the corners of his mouth curved in a smile that was both smug and genuinely pleased.
"Full?" he asked softly, his gaze dropping briefly to where my hand had unconsciously moved to rest on my stomach.
I could only nod, aware of the unfamiliar sensation of being properly satisfied, my belly pleasantly round with his carefully prepared meal.
The domestic intimacy of it all—him cooking, me eating without reservation, this quiet moment of fullness—made me skittish with its normalcy.
When I reached for the plates automatically, the ingrained habit of clearing my own mess as natural as breathing, his hand caught mine, gentle but firm.
"Leave it," he said, already standing, gathering dishes with the same focused intensity he brought to everything. "Rest."
I watched him move through the domestic ritual with an odd tightness in my chest.
His sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms still marked by recent illness, yet he moved with careful purpose—scraping plates, running water, the soft clink of china against sink.
The overhead light caught the silver at his temples, and suddenly I was somewhere else entirely, watching a different dark-haired figure at a different sink, humming tunelessly while small hands—my hands—dried each dish he passed over.
"See, little bird? Every plate tells a story of the meal we shared. That's why we clean them with care—to honor what nourished us."
My mother's voice, gentle as morning rain, echoed across the years.
How many evenings had I stood on that little stool, learning that care could be shown in such simple acts? Before everything shattered, before my father brought home a new family, before care became obligation and meals became battlegrounds.
My vision blurred, and I pressed my fingers against my eyes, trying to stem the unexpected tide.
But it was too late—a soft sound escaped, half-sob, half-gasp, and Sebastian was there in an instant, dish towel forgotten, kneeling beside my chair with alarm etched across his features.
"What's wrong? Are you feeling sick? Is it the baby?"
I shook my head, unable to form words around the knot in my throat. He cupped my face with still-damp hands, thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't meant to shed.
"Elena, talk to me. What is it?"
"It's nothing," I managed, voice thick. "Just... pregnancy hormones, I think. I was thinking about my mother."
His shoulders dropped with visible relief, and he pulled me against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head with infinite care. "You scared me," he murmured into my hair. "Come on, you should rest. The doctor said you need plenty of sleep."
I didn't resist when he helped me to my feet, didn't protest when he walked me to our bedroom with a protective hand at the small of my back.
The emotional storm had left me drained, and the thought of lying down, of letting unconsciousness take these complicated feelings away, was too tempting to refuse.
After washing up and changing into sleepwear, I'd barely settled under the covers when the mattress dipped behind me.
His arm slid around my waist from behind, his chest pressing warm against my back as he fitted himself to my curves with practiced ease.
The familiar weight of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my neck, should have made me tense. Instead, I found myself sinking back into his embrace, letting his solid presence anchor me against the tide of memories and might-have-beens.
His hand moved in slow, soothing circles against my back, the repetitive motion as hypnotic as a lullaby. My eyelids grew heavy, the emotional exhaustion of the evening finally claiming its due.
"Don't worry," his voice drifted to me from somewhere far away, soft as smoke and just as ephemeral. "I'll never leave you."
The words followed me down into sleep, a promise or a threat—I could no longer tell the difference.