11. Domestic Revelations #2
“Dinner’s ready,” I say softly, careful not to startle him. “Nothing’s biting anyway. It’s too cold.”
He remains silent for a long moment, staring out at the still water. Just as I begin to worry I’ve overstepped, his posture relaxes. “Wasn’t really fishing,” he admits, his deep voice hoarse. “Just needed to think.”
“I figured.” I wrap my arms around myself, suppressing a shiver. “But you can think inside where it’s warm. I made roasted chicken. And fresh bread.”
This draws his attention. He turns to face me finally, and something in his expression shifts as he takes in my appearance—his shirt draped over my dress, my hair escaping its messy bun, flour probably still dusting my face despite wiping it off with the hand towel.
The intensity of his gaze makes heat rise to my cheeks.
“You didn’t have to cook,” he says, but he’s already stowing the fishing rod, preparing to follow me back to the cabin.
“I wanted to.” The words come out more forcefully than intended. “I like cooking for—” I catch myself before saying you , substituting instead, “—people who appreciate it.”
If he notices my stumble, he doesn’t comment.
We walk back to the cabin in comfortable silence, his large frame automatically adjusting his stride to match mine.
The comfort of the moment strikes me—this simple act of calling someone in for dinner, knowing food waits warm and ready inside.
It’s something I never had with Lucas, whose mealtimes were dictated by his moods rather than any regular schedule.
Inside, the cabin’s warmth envelops us. Micah moves to the fireplace, holding his hands out to the flames. The golden light softens his features, making him look younger somehow, less burdened by the weight of whatever drove him home early today.
I busy myself with final dinner preparations, trying not to stare at the striking figure he cuts against the fireplace.
The urge to go to him, to wrap my arms around his broad chest and offer whatever comfort I can, is almost overwhelming.
Instead, I channel the impulse into setting out serving dishes, arranging everything just so.
“It smells amazing,” Micah says, finally moving away from the fire. He takes his coat off and hangs it by the door before joining me at the table. His eyes widen as he takes in the spread.
“I hope you’re hungry.” I gesture for him to sit. “I made more than enough.”
He settles into his chair, his size making the rustic furniture seem almost delicate in comparison. “I can see that. Stress baking?”
The question catches me off guard. I pause in the act of serving him, considering my response. “I guess so. Baking helps me relax. Gives me something to do with my hands.”
Micah’s expression clouds briefly. “I’m sorry about how I acted when I came home. It was a difficult day. I shouldn’t have brought that energy home with me.”
Home . The word hangs between us, loaded with implications. This cabin has somehow become more. Not quite a home, perhaps, but something beyond mere shelter.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I say, finally taking my own seat. “Everyone has bad days. At least you didn’t take it out on me.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Micah’s face darkens with understanding, and I know we’re both thinking of Lucas and how his bad days inevitably ended in bruises and tears.
“I would never—” Micah starts, then stops himself, taking a deep breath. “You’re safe here, Naomi. With me. Whatever else happens, whatever’s going on out there, you never have to worry about that with me.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight. I focus on cutting my chicken, blinking back unexpected tears. “I know,” I manage finally. “That’s not what I meant to imply. I just … I appreciate how you handle things. How you respect boundaries.”
He grunts softly in acknowledgment, and we eat in silence for a while. Gradually, the tension eases. I watch from beneath lowered lashes as Micah enjoys the food, satisfaction warming my chest at each bite. When he reaches for a second piece of bread, I can’t suppress a small smile of triumph.
“What?” he asks, catching my expression.
“Nothing.” I try to school my features into neutrality. “Just nice to cook for someone who actually eats.”
“As opposed to?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice now, the earlier darkness receding.
“Lucas was always on some ridiculous diet,” I explain, surprised by how easily I can say his name in this moment. “Protein shakes and bland chicken breasts. He said my cooking would make him fat.”
Micah’s eyebrows rise. “The man was an idiot about more than just his treatment of you, it seems.”
The unexpected criticism of his son startles a laugh from me. The sound surprises us both—genuine, unguarded. When was the last time I really laughed? I can’t remember.
“He was,” I agree, emboldened by Micah’s candor. “Lucas thought my dream of opening a bakery was ridiculous. He said it was beneath our social status. That no wife of his would work in trade .” I inject the last word with all the snobbish disdain Lucas had used.
Micah’s expression shifts with recognition. “Sounds familiar. Sandra had similar ideas about acceptable careers. Anything too working class was beneath us, never mind that we barely had two nickels to rub together when we met.”
“Really?” I lean forward, eager for this glimpse into his past. “What did you want to do?”
He shrugs, but I sense the old frustration beneath his casual tone. “Had some talent for woodworking. Thought about opening a furniture shop. Custom pieces, restoration work. But Sandra…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely at the life choices that led him here instead.
“Is that what all these projects are?” I wave toward the workbench near the window, where half-finished pieces wait patiently for attention. “Your alternative career?”
“More of a hobby now.” He glances at the workbench with something like longing. “Keeps my hands busy when I need to think. Like your baking.”
The parallel strikes me forcefully—how we both turn to creative work as therapy, finding peace in the transformation of raw materials to something beautiful and useful.
How our dreams were shaped and constrained by others’ expectations.
The understanding flows between us, creating a connection that transcends our complicated circumstances.
We fall into easier conversation as we clear the table together, moving around the small kitchen with surprising coordination. Micah insists on washing dishes despite my protests, and I find myself watching his profile in the soft lamplight.
He rolls his sleeves up, revealing corded forearms and a fresh bandage that was hidden underneath his sleeve.
The sight sends a spike of concern through me, but I resist the urge to question him about it.
It’s probably the reason for his mood when he first got home and I don’t want to spoil the calm we now share.
Instead, I dry the dishes he hands me, our domestic choreography comfortable despite its newness. He tells me stories about club patrons—sanitized versions, I’m sure, but entertaining nonetheless. His dry observations draw more laughter from me, each genuine sound seeming to please him.
“You know,” I say, putting away the last plate, “you’re not nearly as scary as you try to appear.”
His eyebrows rise. “No?”
“No.” I lean against the counter, feeling oddly bold. “Oh, you look intimidating enough. But I’ve seen you with Powder. No one who baby-talks to their cat is truly terrifying.”
“I do not baby-talk to the cat.” He protests, but his eyes crinkle with suppressed amusement.
“Really? So when I heard you calling her ‘daddy’s precious princess’ the other morning, I imagined it?”
Color rises above his beard, and he points the dish towel at me in mock threat. “That information does not leave this cabin.”
I raise my hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Your secret is safe with me. Though it might improve your reputation, you know. The big bad enforcer with a soft spot for fluffy white cats.”
“My reputation is just fine, thank you.” But he’s smiling now, a real smile that transforms his entire face. It makes my breath catch.
In this moment, the barriers between us seem less insurmountable than before. They’re still there, still serious, but reduced somehow from impassable walls to obstacles that might, possibly, be overcome.
I push away from the counter, needing distance from these dangerous thoughts. “Coffee? And there’s apple cobbler for dessert.”
“You’re trying to fatten me up.” He accuses, but he’s already reaching for coffee mugs.
“Maybe.” I busy myself with dessert preparations, not meeting his eyes. “Or maybe I just want to see that smile on your face more often.”
He looks at me, his smile much softer now. “Keep it up. I like smiling.”