Page 79 of The Sound Between Us

“Why?”

“Because you learned to cook out of love, and I learned to avoid kitchens because they reminded me of everything I was supposed to be grateful for.” She picks at her nails. “We’ve completely switched lives, haven’t we? You have everything now, and I’m the one running from my father’s world.”

I stop chopping, really looking at her. The way her chin juts forward when she talks about her father, defensive and defiant. The way her shoulders curl inward.

“Why did you go with him? To LA, I mean. If you hate it all so much.”

She’s quiet for so long I think she won’t answer. When she finally speaks, her voice is smaller, more vulnerable than I’ve heard it. “Because the thing about Dad is, he won’t stop trying. No matter how much I kick back, no matter how clearly I say no.” She looks down at her hands. “He just keeps believing I’ll come around.”

“Maybe because he loves you enough to keep trying.”

She looks at me as though I’ve just slapped her. “Don’t. Don’t make him the hero in this story.”

“I’m not, I just⁠—”

“You are, though. Everyone does.” That jut of her chin again, defensive. “Poor Damon, trying so hard with his difficult daughter. Saint Damon, never giving up hope.” Her laugh is bitter and sharp. “Do you know what it’s like to have someone love you so publicly that it becomes another kind of performance?”

The raw honesty in her voice hits me. I set down the knife, turn to face her properly.

“No. But I know what it’s like to perform love for people who expect it from you.”

She looks up then, those dark eyes searching my face. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The kitchen fills with the sound of oil heating in the pan, the distant hum of the city below.

I push up my sleeves and get to work, falling into the rhythm of chopping vegetables, the satisfying sizzle as aromatics hit the pan. There’s meditation in it, the way each step builds on the last, the way you can lose yourself in turning raw ingredients into nourishment.

Seren watches me move around the kitchen, and I can feel her eyes on me. When I offer her a taste from the wooden spoon, blow on it first, hold my hand underneath to catch any drips, our fingers brush as she takes it from me. The contact is electric, but I pretend not to notice.

“This is... actually good. I was expecting beans on toast level competence.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

The words come out more loaded than I intended, and I see her blink, colour rising in her cheeks. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, more intimate, filled with steam from the pan and warm light.

I can’t seem to stop myself from noticing how she looks in my kitchen. Barefoot now, with her dress riding up slightly where she’s sitting. Can’t stop cataloguing the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she laughs, or how she closes her eyes when she tastes good food. The curve of her neck when she tips her head back. The way she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking.

Christ, why does this feel more intimate than sex?

When dinner’s ready, we eat at the kitchen island, talking about safe things. Travel, books, the view from my windows. Anything but what happened tonight, or what’s happening between us, or the fact that every casual touch feels like playing with fire.

After, I disappear upstairs and return with an armful of hotel toiletries, a fluffy robe, slippers.

“Right, so...” I dump everything on the coffee table, suddenly embarrassed by the ridiculousness of it all. “I may have gone slightly overboard with the guest amenities.”

Seren stares at the pile, then starts laughing, this gorgeous, surprised sound that makes my chest tight. “Christ, I feel as though I’m at the Ritz. Are you going to turn down my bed and leave chocolate on the pillow too?”

“Only if you promise not to nick the bathrobe,” I say, and the grin that spreads across her face is worth every awkward second of this moment.

I show her to the guest room. Fresh towels folded with hospital corners, new toothbrush still in its packaging on the bathroom counter, water glass on the bedside table.

“You’ve thought of everything.”

I hover in the doorway, watching her take in the space. The guest room is immaculate, clearly rarely used, but comfortable. Everything designed to be welcoming without being personal.

She looks as though she wants to say more, her mouth opening slightly before she closes it again. There’s something in her expression I can’t quite read. Disappointment? Confusion?

What I want is for us to be messy and wild, but I know this isn’t the night for that. I need to earn it and the best way to start is by closing the door and walking away.

“Sleep well, Seren. Tomorrow will be better.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

I step back into the hallway and close the door between us with quiet finality.

Every instinct is screaming at me to knock on that door, to stop playing noble protector and just be honest about what I want.

Instead, I walk away.

Doing the right thing has never felt more like a mistake.