Chapter 87 87
Annabeth's POV:
Kaelen came through the front door around nine, cheeks flushed from the cold, leaves stuck to his jacket. He'd been out since before I woke up, learning the property, I guessed, the perimeter routes, all the exits Marcus had mentioned last night.
"Morning," he said, kicking off his boots by the door.
"Morning. How's the property?"
"Big. Confusing. Marcus showed me the whole thing." He pulled off his jacket and hung it on the hook. "There's like three different trails to the river and two emergency routes out. He's been planning this place for years."
"Sounds like him."
"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair, which was messy from the cold and had a twig in it that he hadn't noticed. "I'm gonna shower. Save me some coffee?"
"There's a full pot."
He disappeared up the stairs and I heard the bathroom door close, then the water start running. I sat at the kitchen table drinking my coffee, trying not to think about Kaelen in the shower. Failing completely.
He came back down maybe fifteen minutes later, hair wet, wearing a gray t-shirt that was definitely too thin for November but dragons ran hot so I guess it didn't matter. He stopped when he saw me still at the table and this smile spread across his face, slow and warm, and suddenly the cabin felt less like a prison.
"Still here," he said.
"Where else would I go?"
He walked to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, and came to sit across from me at the table. Our knees bumped underneath and neither of us moved away.
"Sleep okay?" he asked.
"No."
"Me neither." He took a sip of coffee and looked at me over the rim of the mug with those eyes that had kept me awake half the night. "Kept thinking about... things."
"What kind of things?"
"Walls. Specifically, how thin they are. And how unfair that is."
I laughed, this stupid breathy sound that I hated. "Yeah. I had similar thoughts."
We sat there for a minute, drinking coffee, our knees touching under the table. The silence was different with him. Comfortable instead of suffocating. The bond hummed between us, warm and steady, and I could feel his emotions bleeding through: want, frustration, something softer underneath that made my chest tight.
"You hungry?" he asked. "I can make something."
"You cook? Like, for real and not just inside an abandoned safe house where there’s no other choice?"
"I've been taking care of two kids for five years. I can make, like, seven things. All of them involve eggs."
"Eggs sound good."
He got up and started opening cabinets, pulling out a pan, grabbing the eggs and bacon from the fridge. I watched him move around the kitchen, the way his shoulders shifted under that thin shirt, the way his hands looked holding the spatula. Domestic. Weirdly hot. I hated myself a little for noticing.
"How do you want them?" he asked.
"Scrambled."
"Boring choice."
"Safe choice. Less chance of food poisoning."
"I'm not going to give you food poisoning, Annabeth. I'm actually good at this."
"Prove it."
He cracked eggs into a bowl and started whisking. The bacon went into the pan first, sizzling immediately, and the smell filled the kitchen. I got up and walked over to where he was standing, leaning against the counter next to the stove. Close enough that our arms almost touched.
"You're hovering," he said.
"I'm supervising."
"Same thing."
The bacon was crackling now, the edges curling up. He flipped the pieces with a fork, focused on the task, and I watched his profile. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair was starting to dry in these messy waves.
"Take a picture," he said without looking at me. "It'll last longer."
"Shut up."
"You were staring."
"I was observing. There's a difference."
"Sure." He pulled the bacon out and set it on a paper towel, then poured the eggs into the same pan. They sizzled and he started pushing them around with the spatula, adding salt from a shaker that looked older than me.
"Here." He scooped up a small bit of egg on the spatula and held it toward me. "Taste test. Tell me if it needs more salt."
I leaned forward and took it off the spatula with my mouth. The eggs were good, actually. Fluffy, buttery.
"Well?" he asked.
"Not bad."
"Not bad. I'm wounded."
"Fine. Good. Really good. Happy?"
"Getting there."
He turned back to the stove but I could see him smiling. I stayed where I was, watching him finish the eggs, feeling the warmth from the stove and from him and from something building in the space between us.
He plated the food and handed me mine, then picked up a piece of bacon from his own plate. Took a bite, chewed, made this face like he was thinking very hard about something.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing. Just..." He picked up another piece and held it toward my mouth instead of his. "Try this. Tell me if I cooked it right."
I raised an eyebrow. "I know how to use my own hands."
"Humor me."
There was something in his voice. Something lower, more deliberate. His eyes were on my mouth and the bond was doing that thing where everything felt amplified, every sensation too sharp.
I leaned forward and bit the bacon from his fingers. My lips brushed his fingertips and I felt him go still, this full-body freeze that I felt through the bond like a shockwave.
"Good?" he asked. His voice came out rough.
"Crispy."
"That's not what I asked."
"What did you ask?"
He stepped closer. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough that I could see his pulse jumping in his throat.
"You're playing with fire," he said quietly. "Literally. You know that, right?"
"I kinda like fire... like a lot, haven’t you noticed yet?"
"Annabeth..."
"What? We're alone. Marcus is gone for hours. The kids are—"
"Right here."
Lucian's voice came from the doorway and we both jerked apart like we'd been electrocuted. He was standing there in his pajamas, hair sticking up everywhere, looking between us with an expression that was way too knowing for fifteen.
"I'm hungry," he said. "Is there food?"
"On the stove," Kaelen said. His voice was almost normal. Almost.
"Cool." Lucian walked past us to the pan, grabbed a plate, started scooping eggs. "Don't mind me. Just pretend I'm not here. Keep doing whatever... that was."
"We weren't doing anything," I said.
"Uh huh." He piled bacon onto his plate. "The sexual tension in here is so thick I could cut it with a knife, but sure. Nothing."
"Lucian," Kaelen warned.
"What? I have eyes. And ears. These walls are like paper, by the way. Just so you know. For future reference. If you were planning anything that requires, I don't know, privacy."
My face was on fire. Actual fire, I could feel the heat spreading across my cheeks.
Lucian grabbed his plate and headed for the door, then stopped. "Also, Marlen wants to know if there's hot chocolate. She's in a mood."
"Cabinet above the stove," Kaelen said.
"Thanks." He disappeared into the living room, and a second later I heard the TV turn on. Some morning show, voices and music filling the silence.
Kaelen looked at me. I looked at him.
"Weeks," I said.
"Weeks," he agreed.
"This is going to be impossible."
"Yeah." He picked up his plate and walked toward the table, then paused and looked back at me. "But don’t you like fire? Maybe impossible is just... a challenge, then."
He sat down and started eating like he hadn't just said that, like my entire body wasn't buzzing from the last five minutes.
I grabbed my plate and sat across from him, our knees touching under the table again, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.
Weeks of this.
God help me.