Chapter 6 Six

Orion’s POV

I woke to the smell of coffee and the sweet aroma of freshly made pancakes. For one disoriented second I thought the penthouse had been invaded by a bakery. 

Then reality crashed back: the fried laptop, the fight, the terrace door sliding shut behind her last night. My chest still felt tight from how close I’d come to crossing a line I swore I wouldn’t.

As I pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt, I resolved to be cold to her. 

She was already at the kitchen island when I walked in, humming under her breath, flipping pancakes in a pan. She wore one of my shirts and the hem skimmed the tops of her thighs. The shirt looked better on her than it ever had on me, and she knew it. She definitely chose it on purpose.

“Morning, Orion.” She smiled over her shoulder like the laptop never died, like I hadn’t called her a walking catastrophe. 

“Coffee’s ready and pancakes too. I used the wild blueberries I kept in the freezer, not  the sad little pellets you usually buy.”

There was a fresh mug waiting on the counter and miracle of miracles, a thick cork coaster underneath it.

I stared at the setup like it might bite.

“You made breakfast,” I said flatly.

“Yep, I figured you’d need fuel after yesterday.” 

She slid a plate of golden pancake stacks with a drizzle of that honey she’d brought from the farm towards me.

“No smoke alarms this time, I promise.”

I took the plate because refusing would have felt petty. As I sat, she poured coffee into my mug then leaned across the island to set the pot down. She made sure to brush her arms against mine twice. Each time, it was light and gone before I could react.

I ate in silence while she perched on the stool opposite me, chin in hand, watching like I was the most interesting thing in the room.

“How’s the merger going?” she asked.

I almost choked on a blueberry. “What merger?”

“The one you were working on when… you know.” She gestured vaguely toward the study. “The big one with the numbers that make your forehead do that little crease.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You were listening.”

“I always listen when you talk about work.” She shrugged. “It sounds important. Tell me about it.”

I should have shut it down. Instead, maybe because I was tired or maybe because her eyes were steady and curious and not mocking, I started explaining. I kept it high-level at first, expecting her to glaze over.

She didn’t.

She leaned forward. “So if the regulators block it because of market share, can’t you carve out the overlapping division and sell it off before closing? Like a pre-merger divestiture?”

I blinked.

She tilted her head. “Grandpa used to read the Wall Street Journal out loud to the goats. He said it helped them grow better wool so I picked up a few things.”

I stared at her. She smiled innocently and reached past me for the syrup bottle. Her shoulder pressed against mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary. 

Before I could recover, Bessie trotted in, bleated once, and latched onto the cord of my noise-canceling headphones that I’d left on the counter last night. She yanked. The cord snapped with a sad little pop.

Reina burst out laughing. “Oh no, Bessie, not again!”

She scooped the goat up, still giggling, then leaned across the island without warning and pressed a quick, soft kiss to my cheek.

“Sorry, husband,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll fix it later.”

She set Bessie down, grabbed the broken cord, and skipped toward the hallway like she hadn’t just detonated something inside my chest.

Husband?

I sat frozen with my fingertips pressed to the spot she’d kissed. My pulse hammered in my ears and The pancake on my fork trembled slightly.

She’d called me husband.

And I hadn’t corrected her.

Reina’s POV

I didn’t look back as I hurried down the hall with the chewed cord in my hand. My heart was racing so hard I thought it might jump out and join Bessie in causing trouble.

I wore his shirt and brushed against him on purpose. The kiss though, was not planned. I couldn't help but kiss his cheeks at that moment although that was not the type of kiss I wanted.

I didn't do all these to tease him, but to remind him that he could feel things other than anger or control. Last night on the terrace I’d stood in the dark wondering if I’d pushed too far, if the storm in his eyes meant he really did want me gone.

Then I heard him pacing the living room at 2 a.m., muttering to himself while he tried to salvage files on his backup laptop. He hadn’t left. He hadn’t locked himself away. He’d stayed in the same space as me, even if he pretended not to notice.

So this morning I decided that I would make breakfast. If he wanted to freeze me out, he’d have to work harder than that.

Wearing his shirt again was a risk and it felt like wrapping myself in part of him. When he walked in and saw it, his eyes darkened for half a second before his face turned cold.  

I kept the touches light. Although each brush made my stomach flip but I didn’t let it show. I wanted him to feel me without being able to accuse me of anything overt.

I really do listen when he talks about work. His voice changes like he’s speaking his native language. I’ve read enough newspapers and listened to enough late-night farm radio to know the basics so I asked him about the merger. The  look on his face when I mentioned divestiture was priceless. For once I wasn’t the chaos; I was the one keeping up.

Then Bessie provided perfect comedic timing.The second the cord snapped I saw my opening.

I didn’t plan the kiss, it just happened. One second I was laughing, the next my lips were against his faintly stubbled cheek. He went still and I felt the jolt go through him.

“Sorry, husband,” I said, light as air, because the word had been waiting on my tongue since the day I arrived.

I didn’t wait to see his reaction. I grabbed the cord and ran before he would say something cold and ruin the moment.

Now I’m in the guest room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, Bessie chewing a toy while I pretend to inspect the broken headphones. My cheeks are on fire. My lips still remember the feel of his skin.

I called him husband out loud.

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t push me away.

He just sat there, touching the spot I’d kissed like he was trying to memorize it.

I pressed my forehead to Bessie’s warm little head and whispered, “We’re getting somewhere, girl.”

Outside the door I hear his footsteps pause in the hallway. He doesn’t come in but  he doesn’t walk away, either.

The ice is thin now.

One more warm day, and it’s going to crack wide open.