Chapter 39 Breakfast
Maria’s POV
I walked out of his room, feeling slightly concerned about his lack of sleep. The look in his eyes before I left hadn’t sat right with me. He tried to play it off like he was fine, like he always did, but I could see the exhaustion there. It lingered in the tightness of his jaw and the heaviness in his stare. I felt a tinge of guilt, and tears threatened to rise in my brown eyes. I blinked them back quickly, refusing to let them fall.
I couldn’t let this get to me.
I needed to put on a brave face.
Holding my side, which was still sore as fuck, I walked down the immaculate marble hallway headed toward the kitchen. Each step sent a dull ache through my ribs, but I ignored it. Pain had become something I just carried now. The house was quiet, almost eerily so, and the sound of my bare feet against the cool marble echoed softly around me. It felt strange walking through a place like this when I still felt like I didn’t belong here.
As soon as I saw the kitchen, my breath caught.
The most gorgeous kitchen I’ve ever seen in my life.
White marble countertops stretched across the room, polished so perfectly they reflected the light. Hunter green cabinets lined the walls, deep and rich, with gold hardware that looked expensive enough to make me nervous to touch. A four-burner stove with a grill and griddle pan in the middle sat beneath a sleek hood vent. A large Samsung fridge with touch-screen doors stood proudly against the wall, looking more like something out of a tech showroom than an actual appliance. A farmhouse sink rested beneath a wide window, the morning light spilling in and making everything glow.
I felt speechless and in utter awe.
Southern Living magazine showed these kinds of dream kitchens every month, and I won’t lie—this had long been a fantasy of mine. I used to flip through those magazines during slow shifts at the diner, imagining what it would be like to cook somewhere like that. But I could never afford the renovations, much less the appliances, in the small house my parents had left me. That house had old countertops and cabinets that stuck when you tried to open them. The stove worked, but only if you turned the knob just right.
This was different.
Setting down the bottle of Pepsi Zero I had been drinking, I opened the fridge, looking for something that I could possibly make for breakfast. The inside was just as impressive as the outside. Everything was organized, clean, and fully stocked. I found the tangerine juice first. Then eggs. Bacon. Fresh fruit neatly arranged in containers.
To the left of the fridge sat a loaf of sliced sourdough next to the toaster.
I opened the fridge back up quickly, looking for strawberry jelly. For some reason, that felt important. I didn’t know why. Maybe because it reminded me of home. After a second of searching, I found it tucked behind a jar of mustard.
“Of course you have jelly,” I muttered softly to myself.
I got out two frying pans and set to work. The sound of the burners clicking on filled the quiet room. I cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisking them until they blended together smoothly. Pouring them into the pan, I began stirring gently while the bacon fried beside them.
The sizzling sound filled the kitchen.
Whisking the eggs and stirring them while the bacon was frying gave a sort of odd enjoyment I hadn’t experienced before. It felt… calming. Simple. Normal. Shaking my head, I realized how strange that thought was. When I worked at the diner, the smells bothered me after working there so long. No matter how much I washed my hair, I still stunk of burnt eggs and grease. It clung to my clothes, my skin—everything.
But here, in this kitchen, it smelled different. Cleaner. Fresher.
Maybe it was just the environment.
Maybe it was him.
I flipped the bacon, watching it crisp perfectly at the edges. The eggs scrambled soft and fluffy beneath my spatula. I slid two slices of sourdough into the toaster and leaned back slightly, taking a careful breath when my side protested.
For a brief second, I let myself imagine this was normal. That I was just making breakfast for someone I cared about. Not hiding out in a mansion owned by a man with enemies. Not recovering from a bullet wound. Just… normal.
The toast popped up, pulling me back to reality.
I spread butter over the warm slices and added strawberry jelly, watching it melt slightly into the bread. I took out some plates and made two plates for Aleksander and me, arranging the eggs, bacon, and toast neatly. I don’t know why I cared so much about how it looked, but I did. Maybe because everything else felt so out of control lately.
I left the rest of the eggs and bacon on a separate plate on the counter in case any of the men might like some. Dimitri was usually up early. Adam too. They’d probably appreciate something hot.
I poured two glasses of tangerine juice and placed them carefully beside the plates. The bright orange color felt cheerful against the white marble countertops.
I found a serving tray on top of the fridge and carefully pulled it down. It was heavier than I expected, solid and sturdy. I placed the plates and two glasses of juice on it, adjusting everything so it wouldn’t tip over.
“Don’t drop it,” I whispered to myself.
Balancing the tray carefully, I walked back to Aleksander’s room. Each step required focus. My side ached, but I kept going. I didn’t want him to see me struggle more than necessary.
When I walked in and he saw the food, he paused.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like he was lost in thought. His hair was slightly messy, and he looked like he hadn’t slept at all. When his eyes lifted to meet mine and then dropped to the tray in my hands, something shifted in his expression.
He gave me a sad smile, like he was trying to come out of this funk he was in.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly, his voice rough.
“I know,” I replied softly, setting the tray down carefully. “But I wanted to.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his gaze lingering on my face, then drifting briefly to my side as if checking for signs of pain.
“You should be resting,” he added.
“I’m fine,” I said, brushing it off. “Besides, I make a decent breakfast.”
A faint huff of amusement escaped him.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, actually,” I said, handing him his plate. “Years at the diner taught me something.”
He took the plate from me, his fingers brushing mine briefly. The contact sent a small warmth through me that I tried not to overthink.
He took a bite and chewed slowly. I watched him, maybe a little too closely.
“It’s good,” he said after a second.
Relief spread through me more than it should have.
“Good,” I replied, sitting down beside him with my own plate.
For a moment, the room felt lighter. The tension that had followed him like a shadow seemed to ease just a little. He was still tired. Still carrying whatever weight pressed down on him. But he was trying.
And maybe that was enough for now.
If making breakfast was the only way I could help, then I would do it.
One small, ordinary moment at a time