36. Henry
36
HENRY
I wake up to the smell of bacon and pancakes, confused and half-asleep. Sunlight streams through the blinds, casting warm stripes across the empty side of the bed where Monica should be resting. Fuck. She's supposed to be off her feet.
I bolt upright, grabbing a t-shirt and pulling it over my head as I rush toward the kitchen. The sound of a pan sizzling and soft humming confirms my suspicions.
"What the hell are you doing?" I demand, rounding the corner to find Monica standing at the stove—on one foot—her crutches propped against the counter as she flips pancakes with expert precision. Her fractured ankle is still in its cast, elevated slightly as she balances.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine," she says without turning around, the spatula moving with practiced ease despite her awkward stance.
"Monica, you're supposed to be resting. The doctor said?—"
"The doctor said a lot of things." She pivots carefully, using the counter for support. "But what he didn't say was that I had to stop living my life."
I cross the kitchen in three strides, positioning myself beside her. "You were discharged yesterday. Your ankle is fractured. You could fall and hurt yourself worse."
"Henry, I've been cooking on my feet for twelve-hour shifts since I was twenty-two. I think I can handle making breakfast on one foot." She slides a perfect golden pancake onto a growing stack. "Besides, I was going crazy just lying there."
"That's what Netflix is for," I grumble, but I can't help admiring her stubbornness.
She places a finger against my lips. "Shh. Just sit down and eat. I needed this—to feel normal, to do something with my hands that isn't filling out police reports or looking through old text messages."
The fight drains out of me. I understand needing control when everything else feels chaotic. I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist carefully, my chin resting on her shoulder.
"At least let me help, Mrs. Blackwood." I slide my hands down to her hips, steadying her. "Let me take over. You've done the hard part."
"I'm perfectly capable?—"
"I know you are. That's not the point." I reach around her for the spatula. "The point is that I'm here to help, whether you like it or not."
Monica reluctantly surrenders the spatula with a dramatic sigh, but I catch the hint of relief in her eyes. I help her gather her crutches, then take over flipping the remaining pancakes while she supervises from a safer distance.
"The bacon needs to come out in thirty seconds," she instructs. "Not a second longer or it'll be too crisp."
I follow her directions to the letter, plating everything exactly as she specifies—bacon arranged in perfect parallel lines, pancakes stacked with military precision. Once breakfast is ready, I guide her to the table, my hand at the small of her back, careful not to throw her off balance with the crutches.
"Your dining room awaits, Chef Blackwood," I say, pulling out her chair with a little flourish.
She eases into it with a grimace, propping her injured ankle on the chair I've positioned across from her. I set our plates down and take my seat beside her, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
"This looks incredible," I say, cutting into the stack of pancakes. The first bite confirms it—fluffy, buttery perfection. "Fuck, Monica. This is amazing. Like, restaurant-quality amazing."
She smiles, a genuine one that reaches her eyes and softens her whole face. "Just pancakes."
"Not just pancakes. Your pancakes." I take another bite, savoring the subtle hint of vanilla and cinnamon. "And has anyone ever told you how goddamn beautiful you are in the morning? Because they should have."
She rolls her eyes, but I notice the slight smile on her lips as she fiddles with her fork. "I'm in pajamas with bedhead and a broken ankle. Hardly cover model material."
"And you're still stunning." I reach over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "I mean it. Most beautiful woman I've ever seen, especially like this—no makeup, just you."
"You're ridiculous," she mutters, but she's smiling.
"I'm serious. Beautiful and talented." I gesture to my nearly empty plate. "Where did you learn to cook like this? These aren't restaurant pancakes. These are something else entirely."
"My grandmother," she says softly. "Sunday mornings were sacred in her house. I learned all her tips and tricks over the years."
I reach for her hand across the table, squeezing gently. "Well, she taught you well."
I polish off the last bite of pancake, savoring the sweet buttery flavor. "You know what's unfair? You cook better with one functioning leg than most chefs do with all their limbs."
Monica laughs, spearing a piece of bacon. "Cooking isn't about how many limbs you have. It's about knowing your ingredients."
"Is that why you taste-test everything I cook with that skeptical expression?" I raise an eyebrow at her.
"I do not look skeptical!" She tosses her napkin at me.
"You absolutely do. Your left eyebrow goes up like this—" I demonstrate, making an exaggerated face of suspicion. "And then you do this little head tilt, like you're thinking 'bless his heart, he tried.'"
She nearly chokes on her orange juice. "I do not!"
"You absolutely do. Every time I cook for you."
"Maybe because you think salt is a personality trait," she counters, grinning.
I clutch my chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Mrs. Blackwood. Salt is an art form in the culinary world, I'll have you know."
When we finish eating, Monica shifts in her seat, reaching for her crutches. "Let me help with the dishes."
"Absolutely not." I stand quickly, collecting both our plates before she can protest. "You stay right where you are." I stack her silverware on top with a definitive clink.
"Henry, I can at least dry?—"
"Nope." I stack the dishes with practiced efficiency, moving them out of her reach. "Consider the kitchen off-limits until further notice. Doctor's orders."
"That's ridiculous. I'm not an invalid." She sits up straighter, that stubborn gleam in her eyes I've come to recognize all too well.
I turn to face her, hands on my hips. "Did I say you were? No. But you have a broken ankle, and standing at the sink isn't going to help it heal. Besides, I'm perfectly capable of washing a few dishes without burning down the apartment."
She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off.
"Just relax. Put on some music, read a book, plot world domination—whatever you want. But the dishes are mine."
Monica sighs dramatically but settles back in her chair. "Fine. But only because you're being so damn stubborn about it. And my ankle is not broken, I'll have you know. It's only fractured."
"Same thing." I grin victoriously, collecting the remaining dishes and carrying them to the sink. As I rinse plates and load the dishwasher, I catch her watching me with a soft smile.
"What?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder.
"Nothing," she says, that smile still playing on her lips. "Just enjoying the view."