Chapter 19
Robin
I wake up in pain and in love and not sure which one is more disorienting.
Vaughn is half on top of me, one leg thrown over mine, his arm across my waist like he's making sure I can't escape even in sleep. His face is pressed into my neck, breath warm against my skin. The early morning light paints golden stripes across his bare shoulders.
Everything I've ever wanted. Right here. Holding me like I matter.
But my hand feels like someone's driving hot needles through it.
I try to breathe through it, stay still.
Don't want to wake him. Don't want to disturb this moment where Vaughn is in my bed, holding me, after the worst day of my life and the best night — not best because of sex, because we didn't have sex, but best because I said I love you and meant it and he said it back and neither of us ran.
The pain spikes and a whimper escapes before I can catch it.
Vaughn's instantly awake. Alert, hovering over me, scanning my face. "What's wrong?"
"My hand."
"Okay." Already reaching for the nightstand. "Pain pills first, antibiotics second. When did you take the last dose?"
"Last night."
He helps me sit up, holds the water glass steady while I swallow everything. His other hand smooths my hair back, gentle and automatic, like taking care of me is something his body knows how to do without his brain's permission.
"Better?"
"Not yet."
"It'll kick in. Food will help." He swings his legs out of bed. "Stay here."
"Vaughn, you don't have to—"
He gives me a look that says he's absolutely cooking for me whether I protest or not. I close my mouth.
He comes back in fifteen minutes with a plate and an apron.
The plate has eggs — a little overdone, a little too much pepper.
The toast is slightly burnt on one edge.
The butter isn't evenly spread. He's wearing one of my aprons, the one that says I Like Big Bundts, tied over his pajama pants.
No shirt. Bedhead. Reading glasses pushed up on his forehead because he needed them to read the dosage on the antibiotic bottle.
Domestic Vaughn. Making me breakfast. In my ridiculous apron.
"Thank you," I say, and mean it with my whole heart.
"They're just eggs."
"They're eggs you made for me. While wearing my apron. After staying with me all night even though I ugly cried on your shoulder."
He kisses my temple. "Eat."
I take a bite. The eggs are overdone. The toast is charred. The pepper is aggressive.
They're perfect.
I start laughing. Not the performance kind — the real kind, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and makes my hand hurt but I can't stop because it's all so absurd and beautiful.
"What?" Vaughn looks alarmed. "Are they that bad?"
"No, I just—" I gasp between laughs. "I just realized. I never have to deal with Gordon again."
Vaughn goes still. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and watches me laugh about the worst job I ever had.
"Seven years," I say, wiping my eyes. "Seven years of being told I'm incompetent. That my fondant is fussy. That my plating is art school bullshit. He once made me redo an entire wedding cake because the roses were 'too perfect' and he said they made the bride look bad by comparison."
"He sounds like an asshole."
"The biggest asshole. He threw a pan at me.
He changed menus at midnight. He scrapped my work for fun.
And I said yes, Chef every single time because I didn't know I was allowed to say anything else.
" I take another bite of terrible, perfect eggs.
"I'm absolutely fucked for money. I'm unemployed with seven stitches and one working hand.
But never hearing Gordon scream my last name at 5 AM again? Worth it."
Vaughn smiles. Comes around and kisses me properly. I can taste coffee on his tongue.
"You'll find something better," he says against my mouth.
"Mm." I pull back, give him my best flirty smile despite the pain and the tears and the general disaster that is my current existence. "You know, some things I don't even need hands for."
He laughs — loud, genuine, the kind of laugh I'm still collecting because each one feels rare. "Eat your breakfast."
"But Vaughn—"
"Breakfast first. Everything else when you're healed."
"I'm not injured in the relevant areas."
"Robin."
"Fine." I pick up my fork with dramatic martyrdom. "But for the record, these eggs are perfect."
"They're overdone."
"Perfect for me. Because you made them."
His face does the thing — the Vaughn thing, where the gruffness cracks and something tender shows through, just for a second, before he covers it back up. I want to live in that crack. I want to build a house there.
He steals the bacon back. "Eat."
"You're very bossy in the morning."
I finish my breakfast, every overdone bite, and he clears the plate without being asked. Rinses it. Puts it in Ash's fancy dishwasher with its twelve settings. Comes back to me.
"Couch?" he says.
"Couch," I agree. "You pick what we watch."
"I pick?"
"Terrible eggs, terrible taste in movies. I'm committed to the theme."
He carries me to the couch. Literally picks me up and carries me, and I don't even protest because my legs are shaky from the pain meds and because being carried by Vaughn is an experience I've been undervaluing.
He settles me against the cushions. Cloud blanket.
Water. Pain pills within reach. Then he stretches out beside me and pulls me against his chest and turns on a documentary about engine restoration that I will roast him for choosing but secretly find soothing because his heartbeat is steady under my ear and his voice rumbles when he explains the difference between a flat-head and an overhead valve, and I am warm and held and home.
My hand throbs. I have no job. My savings won't last a month.
But Vaughn's here, making me terrible breakfast and promising everything will be okay, and for the first time in years, I actually believe someone when they say that.