Page 84 of Into Pitch

“You’d have been good at it, I think.”

Those words shouldn’t matter, but they do. Her eyes, the sharp green of them warmer today, more thoughtful and open in a way that feels undeserved. She isn’t looking at me like a broken thing or even a threat, she’s just looking at me like I’m human.

This moment—no matter how hard I tried for this outcome in that cabin—can be replicated or forced or even undone. It’s just natural the way we flow beside each other when we aren’t locking horns over the technicalities. And all I have to do is somehow figure out how to make these moments last for us forever.

Because I don’t want any of this to end.

The fish smells awful in a way that all fish does whether it is good or not. Like lake water and something eerily close to a metal of sorts. The small space around us doesn’t help either, though I have found something else disturbing when we returned from fishing.

The cabin has quit feeling foreign.

Nothing about it has changed; same rough wood walls, same mismatched cabinets, same narrow windows that frame the forest. The only thing within this space that has, is me. Sort of. Maybe.

Or maybe I’ve stopped bracing for the impact long enough to just accept the details. Some of which I don’t mind all that much.

My eyes flick to Alex from where I stand leaning back against the counter. The knife he’s chosen is sharp and he works with practiced precision, movements efficient without being rushed. There isn’t any wasted motion and he certainly doesn’t fumble. I wonder if he wields the knife when he murders the same way?

The fish yields easily under his hands, and I try not to read too much into the fact that he looks very comfortable slicing things up into little pieces.

“You’re staring again,” he hums without looking up.

“I’m observing,” I correct. “You’d hate staring, that is awfully inefficient.”

A faint huff of amusement escapes him, and he points to me playfully with the knife. “That is fair.”

I grin and shift closer, grabbing the cutting board he slides my way. The counter is narrow enough that our hips brush when we pass each other. The contact is brief, accidental maybe, yet my body registers it instantly. A quiet awareness blooming under my skin that I try to ignore.

“I’ll season,” I bark, attempting to do other things besides hyper-focusing on each touch.

I reach for the small collection of spices he’s lined up on the counter, nearly snorting when I find them arranged in alphabetical order. Peeking over my shoulder, I make sure he’s more focused on the weapon in his hands and quickly reorder the spices. It’s a small act of defiance, but it feels fucking phenomenal.

“Do you cook?” He asks after I’ve gathered what I’ve needed.

“I survive and there’s some overlap, I suppose.”

I sprinkle salt, then pepper, then hesitate before adding just a bit of lemon zest. The scent brightens immediately, and I close my eyes for a second just to breathe it in. When I open my eyes I find Alex watching me.

“When did you learn?” He asks.

“Well, I mean I guess you learn fast when wasting food means going hungry. Cooked food lasts longer than raw if you don’t have a freezer.” I murmur, to which he only nods and files it away in that big brain of his.

We continue to work in relative silence for a few minutes, the quiet filled with small, domestic sounds; the sizzle of oil in the pan, the soft scrape of a knife against wood, and the groan of the cabin settling around us.

It feels intimate.

Not the sexual kind of intimacy both of us know a little too well, but the real one. The one that forms bonds and ties that you can’t shake no matter how hard you pick at the knots that form.

Reaching for a pan, I stretch across the counter without thinking, my fingers brushing his wrist. I should curse myself for the fleeting contact, but I don’t pull away immediately, nor does he. I let the heat from that touch pool low in my stomach. Then I realize how bazar it is to get all hot and bothered by touch and yank my hand away.

“This is weird,” I mutter, stepping back to the stove.

“What is?”

“Cooking with you,” I admit. “Feels like I’m in the wrong universe.”

He snorts, considering it. “You’re not.”

“You sure about that?” I grin to him over my shoulder.