Continued for those of you who've enjoyed reading my kitchen adventures...
The mid-summer storm had turned feral. Not rain, not wind — rage. It slammed against her narrow balcony doors hard enough to rattle the glass in the cheap frame of the outdated apartment. Every gust whistled through gaps in the weather stripping maintenance needed to fix. Lightning strobed behind closed mini blinds, throwing the kitchen into harsh flashes. His profile leaned easy against the doorframe. Dinner was over. Dishes rinsed, counters wiped. But neither of them moved toward the door.
She stood at the counter, arms crossed tight, pulse still tripping from earlier. He hadn’t said much since they’d finished eating, just watched her with that unnervingly calm presence that always made her feel naked and cornered. The quiet went on long enough she thought maybe they’d ride it out.
Then he said, low and certain, “Tell me something real.”
The words cut through rain and thunder like they’d been waiting in his mouth all night.
Her brows jumped. “Excuse me?”
“Something real,” he repeated. Calm, steady. “No jokes. No deflection.”
The sarcasm shot out of her on reflex. “Fine. It’s always cloudy when it rains.”
His eyes didn’t move. “Try again.”
“Wow,” she deadpanned. “You’re really fun at parties.”
“Try. Again.”
His voice didn’t rise, but there was weight to it. Not pushy — unshakable. She stared at the tile between them, fingers twitching against her arm. Jokes came easy; honesty never had. But his silence was heavier than any punchline she could throw at it.
“Look,” he said, stepping closer. “I like the banter. But I want what’s behind it, too.”
He reached for her hand — slow enough she could’ve pulled back, sure enough she didn’t. His palm was warm, rough. Grounding.
“Give me something.”
She froze. Breath caught in her throat. The storm outside felt quieter compared to the one in her ribs.
“No one’s ever asked me that,” she whispered.
“I’m not everyone.”
The words undid her. Silence stretched until it felt unbearable.
“Fine,” she breathed, voice splintering. “You want real?”
Lightning split the sky white through the curtain. Thunder answered, teeth-rattling close.
“I was abused before I was even born.” Her throat scraped raw. “And it doesn’t stop there." She stammered "I’m better off alone.”
The words tasted like iron. Ugly and sharp and true. She braced for pity, for retreat — for anything but what came next. He didn’t say a word. He stepped in and wrapped his arms around her.
Not tentative. Not crushing. Solid. Like bracing her frame against the storm screaming through the walls. She went rigid first — muscles coiled, breath locked — but he didn’t let go. Didn’t force. Just held her, silent and sure, until the fight bled out of her shoulders and her fists uncurled against his chest.
“You’re safe,” he murmured into her hair. “Right here. Right now.”
The words clawed at her throat. She hated how much she wanted to believe them.
“Thank you,” he added softly. “For trusting me with that.”
When she finally pulled back, the storm had shifted. Still angry, still loud — but rolling east, like it had burned through the worst of itself. He slid his hands down her arms, not gripping, just anchoring.
“Come on,” he said quietly.
“Where?”
“Couch.”
“You trying to get me horizontal already?”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Trying to get you comfortable before the ceiling caves in.”
“Smooth save.”
“Wasn’t a save.”
She huffed and let him lead her into the living room anyway.
The apartment wasn’t much. A thrifted sofa from the 90s, secondhand coffee table scarred by rings, mismatched family photos on beige walls. It smelled faintly of basil and rain-soaked asphalt.
The balcony doors hummed with wind. Lightning flared white behind thin curtains. Somewhere above, a neighbor’s footsteps pounded across creaky floors, muffled by thunder.
She curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under herself. He sat at the other end — close but not crowding — arm resting along the back, silent gravity pulling the air tighter.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly.
“Am not.”
His look made her sigh. “Fine. Maybe.”
“Breathe with me.”
“Why?”
“Humor me.” He waited. “In.”
She inhaled, sharp.
“Hold.”
Her chest trembled.
“Out.”
By the third breath, her jaw loosened. By the fifth, her shoulders dropped.
“There you are,” he murmured, thumb brushing her knuckles. “Better?”
“A little.”
“Good girl.”
Heat pooled low in her stomach. She hated that it landed there. “You say that too much.”
“And you like it too much.”
“Do not.”
“Do.”
Her mouth twitched despite herself.
His hand slid up, cupping her jaw. Calloused thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, slow and deliberate.
“Trust me?” he asked quietly.
“Define trust.”
“Let me,” he said simply. “You don’t have to think.”
“Dangerous.”
“Only if you fight me.”
“Guaranteed.”
His grin broke slow and sure. “Hands.”
She hesitated. Then gave them to him.
“Good girl.”
He raised her wrists above her head, resting them against the sofa arm — not tied, not trapped, just still. “You can stop me anytime,” he murmured, voice dipping low enough to vibrate in her bones. “Say ‘red’ and I’m done. Clear?”
“Clear as Crystal.”
“Good.”
His free hand traced slow from her wrist down her arm, over her shoulder, pausing at her waist. Heavy enough to ground, light enough to tease. Her breath hitched.
“You’re shaking again.”
“Your fault.”
“Maybe.”
His mouth brushed her throat — testing first, then firmer. A scrape of teeth sharp enough to draw a gasp. He soothed it with his tongue, kissed lower, then bit again, deliberate this time.
“You’re—” she gasped, breaking into a laugh. “You’re leaving marks.”
“Good.”
“Cocky.”
“Marking.”
“Cheesy.” She grinned.
“You matter.”
“Not this again,” she groaned.
“Until you believe it.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“I won’t.” His teeth grazed her collarbone. “Green?”
“Green,” she breathed.
“Good girl.”
His hand slipped under her shirt, rough palm against warm skin, thumb tracing lazy circles along her stomach. Not rushing, just exploring. Her muscles fluttered under the touch.
“You want me to stop?” he asked.
Silence.
“Say it,” he pressed.
“…No.”
“No what?”
Her throat worked. “No, Sir.”
“Good girl.”
The kiss came hungry and slow, like they’d been holding it back for weeks. He didn’t take; he waited. When she leaned in first, he met her halfway — teeth catching her lower lip in a quick nip that drew a startled sound she couldn’t smother. He soothed it with his tongue, deepened the kiss until the storm outside blurred to white noise.
When he finally pulled back, breath uneven, his forehead rested against hers.
“You’re smiling,” he murmured.
“Shut up.”
“Not denying it.”
“Still shut up.”
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
“Good girl.”
“You say that too much.”
“And you like it too much.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe’s progress.”
The storm eased to steady rain. Their breathing slowed with it, tension loosening without vanishing.
She looked at him then — at the faint grin tugging at his mouth, at the patience in his eyes she didn’t know how to hold. Something inside her shifted. Not healed. Not gone. Just… different. This time she didn’t try to joke her way out of it.