smile. “The way you’ve changed,” he murmurs cryptically.
I want to question him, but I bite my lip when I see how tired he looks. “Upstairs,” I say decisively. “Go and have a hot shower or a bath and get your PJs on. Then come down, and I’ll make you some supper.”
“You will?” He looks rather alarmed, which in reality, he should be because I’ve never been able to cook.
“Yes I will, and don’t argue with me.” I slap his arse, and then can’t help but knead the cheeks. He falls against me, and for a second, I press into him, inhaling the familiar warm smell of him. “No.” I take firm step back. “Don’t tempt me, you demon. Now get upstairs and strip.” I pause. “Not in a good way, though. More in the ‘I’m cold, and I need a shower’ way.”
He laughs and then sighs. “Thanks, babe.”
I press a kiss into his hair, ignoring his mumbles of me catching something. Who cares? I certainly don’t if he’s sick.
He vanishes upstairs, followed eagerly by Charlie. The dog had sussed pretty quickly that Dylan is the real source of food around here. He now steadfastly follows him, as if at any given moment a ham is going to drop out of his trouser leg.
I shake my head and wait to hear the bath start. The man will always inexplicably choose baths over showers. I smile and pad into the kitchen. I have a surprise for him. His mum taught me how to cook scrambled eggs one weekend when Dylan went to pick up his brother from the station, and this is my first chance to test my new skill.
I quickly assemble the ingredients, which is a lot easier now that Dylan lives here, and we actually have ingredients to assemble. Twenty minutes later Dylan pads into the kitchen with his sidekick at his heels. He’s dressed in red-checked pyjama bottoms and a long-sleeved grey t-shirt that clings lovingly to the hard muscles on his torso. He looks a little better, although his eyes are still heavy.
He comes to an abrupt standstill. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I raise one eyebrow and put the plate insouciantly on the table. “Making you something to eat.” I’m secretly proud of how good the food looks, with buttery mounds of eggs piled high on triangles of toast.
“You’re making food,” he says faintly. “Have I walked into an alternate reality?”
“Ha, ha! Sit and eat.” He hesitates, and I laugh. “Fuck off. It tastes alright. I tested it first.”
“You did?”
“Of course I did. I love you. I have no real desire to poison you at the moment.”
For some reason that makes him laugh and I smile, carding my hand through the heavy dampness of his hair. “Eat it,” I say softly, and he complies, taking a huge bite which I have to say shows he has balls.
He gives a low groan which makes me shift slightly. “Fuck, that’s good.” He looks at me. “How?”
I shake my head, reaching up to get a big blue-and-white patterned mug from the cupboard. I tear open the sachet of Lemsip and empty it into the cup before switching the kettle on. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Yeah, before this I’d have said that you’d just have to cook for me to do that, but not now.”
I’m absurdly pleased. I have a law degree and have reached career heights that should have been out of reach of the foster child that I’d been, but nothing makes me feel prouder than the pleasure I’ve given him with such a simple thing. “I like looking after you,” I say softly, and he smiles before resuming eating.
The kettle boils, and I fill the cup. I still as I look down at the yellow liquid. Jude’s words come back to me. He was right, and this is my moment.
I push the cup towards Dylan. “Remember this?” I ask.
He looks at the plate and the cup and I see memory stir.
“God yes, when I came round and stayed with you when you were ill.”
“I fell in love with you then,” I say softly, and he stills, love filling his clear green eyes.
“Really?” he asks, suddenly almost shy. “It was then?”
I nod. “We sat in the kitchen, and we talked, and I told you things I didn’t tell anyone. There was just something about that moment that relaxed my guard, and I knew I needed you. I didn’t recognise that it was love at first,