27. Erika
ERIKA
Golden light filtered through rain-streaked windows. The leather smell of an unfamiliar couch. A blanket was tucked around her shoulders. And a warmth at her back that didn’t match the morning sun.
She was still wearing his shirt, curled against his chest with his arm draped heavily across her waist.
When she tilted her head, she found him already watching her.
“You drool,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “There’s a wet spot on my shirt. I’m choosing to find it endearing.”
“That is categorically false and you have no proof.” She pushed up on one elbow and caught the smirk tugging at his mouth. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough to know you also talk in your sleep.” His thumb traced an absent pattern on her hip through the borrowed fabric. “Something about screenplay notes. Very detailed. You really don't like act two.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I would never.” But his eyes were warm. His hand hadn’t moved from her hip. Something moved through her chest—not at the tease, but at how easy this felt. How much she wanted to stay in it.
The kitchen offered an escape. She padded across the tile. He followed, coffee beans already in hand, because of course he’d found them before she’d even thought to look.
He crossed to her. The coffee bag thumped softly against the counter as he set it down. A blue flame caught under the burner. “One of the few things still working,” he said, reaching for a dented metal moka pot.
“Spanish omelet okay?” He glanced at her as he set the pot on the flame.
She leaned on the counter, watching him crack eggs. “Where did Stefan Cruz learn to cook?”
His knife began chopping an onion in quick, confident strokes. “Mi Tita. Every morning at five, before the sun came up.” As he spoke, his accent deepened. “She always said a man who can’t feed himself isn’t a man at all, he’s just a boy waiting for a woman to take care of him.”
“What else do you cook?”
“Paella.” He pronounced it with a soft roll. “The real kind. Orange-wood fire, coals white-hot. You toast the rice in olive oil before the broth goes in, watch the saffron bloom from red to gold.” He glanced at her. “I’ll make it for you sometime.”
“Sometime,” she repeated.
The kitchen filled with the smell of butter and onions as he worked.
She found herself talking without meaning to about Nanna’s chili, every Sunday in Wichita, Anneliese on a step stool, stirring the pot.
How her sister had made five-alarm chili the night of her first callback, so hot it burned their mouths for days.
“After the funeral, she threw out Nanna’s recipe box.” Erika’s fingers traced patterns on the countertop. “I fished it out of the trash that night. But I’ve never made the chili.”
Stefan’s knife paused mid-chop. When he spoke, his voice was low. “She’s lucky to have you. Someone who salvages the parts she tries to throw away.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He set down the knife and moved beside her, close enough that the heat of his skin reached her.
“My Tita would rap my knuckles with her wooden spoon if she saw me cooking alone while company stands idle.” His hand found the small of her back, steering her gently toward the stove.
“‘Even kings wash dishes in my kitchen,’ she’d say. ”
He positioned himself behind her, his chest solid against her shoulder blades. When he reached around for the bowl of beaten eggs, his presence surrounded her, warm and steady.
“You crack the eggs,” he said, his breath stirring her hair. “I’ll handle the heat.”
She pressed the shell between her fingernails until it gave with a fine crack. His hand slid over hers, his callused palm rough against her knuckles.
“Gently,” he said. “Like this.”
The yolk dropped intact, golden and perfect, into the bowl. His thumb traced slow circles on her wrist.
She tilted her head. Gin and sandalwood and the fresh smell of his morning coffee. His breath caught, a hitch she felt rather than heard. Her phone shattered the moment. They jolted apart. The bowl clattered against the stove, egg white splattering.
Stefan glanced at the screen. “It’s Lily.” He tapped to answer, putting it on speaker. “Lily.”
“Oh, thank God.” Her voice crackled with static and unmistakable relief. “Are you two okay? Is Erika there?”
“I’m here.” Erika gripped the edge of the counter, reality rushing back in. “Is everyone off the island?”
“Everyone but you two. The dock’s gone, like, completely gone. The harbormaster says it’ll be four days minimum, maybe a week before they can get rescue boats out there.”
A week. Alone with him.
Stefan’s expression didn’t change, but his knuckles went white where they gripped the phone. “What about the photos?”
Silence stretched for a beat too long.
“It’s bad.” Lily’s voice dropped. “Hashtag Stennalise is trending worldwide. That hug after the pier jump, someone got video of you two by the pool yesterday, it’s everywhere. Olivia’s doing damage control, but . . .” She exhaled. “Anneliese saw. She’s not answering her phone.”
Her stomach dropped.
“I need to call her.” The words scraped out of her throat.
“Not now,” Lily said. “Give her space. Let me try to reach her first, smooth things over. My battery’s dying anyway—I’ll call again when I know more.”
“Lily—”
But the line was already dead.
Stefan set the phone down slowly. “Twenty percent battery. We should conserve it.”
Erika stared at the dark screen. Her sister wasn’t answering.
“Hey.” Stefan’s voice was soft. He reached for her hand, and his fingers closed around hers. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
Together. The word sat there.
She looked up at him—this man she’d kissed in a hurricane, fallen asleep trusting, woken up wrapped around him. His eyes were steady, waiting. Just offering.
She pulled her hand back, wrapping her arms around herself instead.
“Together,” she said. But the word came out uncertain.
He nodded and turned to the stove. The eggs had gone cold and congealed.
Silence filled the kitchen, just the hiss of the gas burner and the distant crash of waves. Stefan scraped the ruined eggs into the trash and cracked fresh ones into a bowl.
Erika watched him work, her mind spinning through scenarios. What would she even say? I’m sorry I ruined everything you worked for because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself?
“Stop,” Stefan said.
She blinked. “Stop what?”
“Whatever’s happening in your head right now.” He set down the whisk, leaning against the counter. “You've gone somewhere I can't follow. Talk to me.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re catastrophizing. There’s a difference.” His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. “You’re imagining every worst-case scenario, building a case against yourself before anyone else gets the chance.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. He wasn’t wrong.
“We don’t know what Anneliese is thinking,” he continued.
“We don’t know what she saw, or what she’s been told, or why she’s not answering.
All we know is that we’re stuck here for at least four days, with no way off this island.
” He crossed his arms. “So, we can spend that time panicking about things we can’t control. Or—”
“Or we can have today. Just today. No phones, no headlines, no Anneliese.” His voice softened. “Just us, figuring out what this is before the rest of the world gets a vote.”
The offer sat there. One she could choose.
“I need some air,” she said. “I need to walk and think about what this means before I do something reckless like stay in this kitchen with you all morning.”
His expression shifted, but he didn’t argue. “I’m not going to be another person who takes choices away from you.” His mouth flattened. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t want you to stay.”
The words landed deep, in a place she didn’t know was bruised.
She stopped at the door, hand on the frame. She wanted to say something—thank you, or I’m sorry, or last night meant something. What came out was:
“Don’t let the coffee get cold.”
His smile started slow, just the corner of his mouth lifting. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She turned away before she could cross the room and kiss him again.