19. Everly

19

Everly

C ooper returned, his hands bloodied and bruised. The sight of them sent a chill down my spine. We locked eyes, and I swallowed hard.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"I think you know," he replied, his tone carrying a weight I couldn't ignore.

He stood there, waiting. Something unspoken passed between us, an understanding. I moved closer and took his hand in mine. The roughness of his skin contrasted with the tenderness I tried to convey.

"What are you doing?" His question came out more as a statement of confusion than curiosity.

"Your hands are hurt," I stated the obvious. "We need to clean your cuts and get some ice on the swelling."

"Killer," he muttered, almost as if surprised by my concern.

"Come on," I urged, keeping a gentle hold on his hand and leading him into the kitchen. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead as we walked in, casting a harsh glow on the reality of his injuries.

I grabbed a clean dish towel and ran it under cold water, squeezing out the excess before wrapping it around his knuckles. The redness of his blood seeped through the fabric almost instantly. He winced but didn't pull away.

"Hold this," I instructed, pressing the towel firmly against his hand. "I'll get the first aid kit."

He stood silently as I rummaged through the cabinet. The white box with its red cross felt heavier than usual as I brought it to the table and opened it up. Antiseptic wipes, bandages, gauze—everything we'd need to patch him up.

"Sit," I said, pointing to a chair. "Please."

Cooper lowered himself into it, his gaze never leaving my face. I knelt beside him and began cleaning his wounds with careful precision. Each touch drew a sharp intake of breath from him, but he stayed still.

"You don't have to do this," he said after a while, breaking the silence that had settled over us like a heavy fog.

"Of course I do," I replied softly. "Someone has to."

We continued in silence after that, my hands working methodically while his remained steady despite the pain. The air between us felt charged with something unspoken yet deeply understood.

Finally, with his cuts cleaned and bandaged, I looked up at him. His eyes softened for just a moment before returning to their usual guarded state.

"Thank you," he murmured.

I nodded, feeling an odd mix of relief and worry wash over me as we finished tending to his injuries together.

I gently blew on Cooper's knuckles before applying a soft kiss to each one. The moment felt intimate, charged with a kind of unspoken tenderness. When I pulled back, my cheeks felt like they were on fire.

Cooper's eyes narrowed, like he couldn't quite believe it either. "What was that for?"

"Whenever I got hurt, my mother said my father would always kiss my injury and it would magically go away," I explained, feeling a bit self-conscious. "She would do it after he died too, and it always worked. I thought I'd try it on you and see how it worked. Didn't your mom and dad do the same to you?"

He chuckled, but the sound was hollow, almost empty. "My father and I aren't exactly on speaking terms, sugar."

My face fell. My heart went out to him instantly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm not," he replied, his voice carrying a weight that suggested he meant every word.

I wasn't sure he truly believed it, though. The thought of not having a relationship with my father tore at me; I'd give anything to have that connection back. Maybe Cooper just needed a little push.

"Well?" I asked, trying to lighten the mood. "Did it work? Do your hands feel better?"

He smirked, his eyes twinkling for the first time since we'd started this whole process. "You have the magic touch, killer," he said. "Let's make sure you use that magic for good, hmm?"

"Always," I promised, holding his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

The air between us shifted slightly—less tense, more comfortable. I could sense the walls he'd built around himself cracking just a bit, enough for me to glimpse the person beneath the tough exterior.

"He won't hurt you, or anyone else, anymore," he murmured. "And that's a promise."

Three days had passed since I last stepped out of the house. The outside world seemed distant, almost foreign, a place that held little appeal. My sanctuary had become the kitchen, a space that felt both comforting and suffocating at the same time. I stood by the oven, wrapped in an oversized sweater and worn-out jeans, waiting for the timer to go off.

The smell of something burning tickled my nose, making me second-guess every step I'd taken in the recipe. I resisted the urge to open the oven prematurely; the instructions were clear—wait for the timer. Still, anxiety gnawed at me. The ham was meant for Cooper. It was a small gesture, a way to show him I could be useful, maybe even thoughtful. Easter was around the corner, and I wanted to get this right.

I paced back and forth across the linoleum floor, each creak beneath my feet echoing my impatience. The clock on the wall seemed to mock me with its slow-moving hands. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and glanced at the instructions one more time.

"Ten minutes left," I muttered to myself, feeling every second stretch into an eternity.

My thoughts wandered to Cooper. He'd been on my mind constantly, his face appearing unbidden in my daydreams and even my nightmares—not as a villain, but as my savior. The lines etched by his scars told stories he rarely shared. Yet those stories haunted me too, weaving themselves into my own worries and fears.

The smell grew stronger, teetering on the edge between aromatic and alarming. My heart pounded as I resisted opening the oven door again.

"Just stick to it," I whispered.

I wanted so badly for this small effort to matter. To show him I could contribute something worthwhile despite feeling lost and out of place most days.

The timer finally buzzed, breaking my train of thought. My hands trembled as I grabbed oven mitts and pulled open the door. A wave of heat hit me in the face as I carefully extracted the ham. It was darker than I'd hoped, edges singed slightly but not burnt beyond recognition.

"Well," I said aloud to no one in particular, "at least it's not a total disaster."

I placed it on the counter and began applying the glaze with deliberate strokes, trying to cover up any imperfections with sweetened layers.

I turned the ham over and saw the bottom, blackened and charred. My heart sank.

"Frick," I muttered under my breath.

Tears threatened to spill, but I blinked them away. I couldn't afford to break down over a piece of ham.

"It's okay," I said to myself, trying to muster some optimism. "Maybe if I apply extra glaze, he won't even notice."

I picked up the brush again and began layering on the sweet glaze, my movements more frantic now. Each stroke felt like a desperate attempt to cover up not just the burnt meat but also my insecurities, my doubts.

Two days ago, a police officer had come by to take my statement about the attack— rape , I made sure to say. I didn't want to soften what had happened to me. I told the officer everything, sparing no detail. His sympathetic nods and clipped responses were a bitter reminder of how little could be done. Cooper had been livid when he found out, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his fists clenching and unclenching.

I shook my head, trying to focus on the task at hand. The past few days had been a blur of emotions, a rollercoaster of highs and lows that left me feeling dizzy and unsteady. This ham was supposed to be a small step towards normalcy, something tangible that I could control.

Stepping back from the counter, I sighed deeply.

"That's as good as it's going to get," I murmured.

I placed the brush down and stared at my handiwork, hoping it would be enough to bring some semblance of peace or joy.

I turned off the stove, feeling the heat from the burner dissipate almost immediately. The smell of burnt ham lingered in the air, mingling with the steam rising from the pot of corn. My eyes darted to the clock, ticking away relentlessly. Time seemed to slip through my fingers like sand.

Grabbing a potholder, I lifted the pot and carefully made my way to the sink. The steam billowed up, clouding my vision as I tipped the pot over, straining the corn. I noticed some kernels had stuck to the bottom, their edges charred and blackened.

"Double frick," I murmured.

I tried scraping them off with a spoon, but they crumbled into unrecognizable bits. Defeated, I transferred what was salvageable into a serving bowl and moved on to the mashed potatoes.

The bowl of potatoes sat on the counter, looking lumpy and unappetizing. I picked up the masher and went at them again, hoping to smooth out some of the chunks. My arms ached from the effort, but no matter how much I mashed, they remained stubbornly uneven.

"Come on," I whispered to myself, pressing harder. "Just cooperate."

I added a splash of milk, hoping it would help achieve a creamier consistency. Instead, it turned into a soupy mess that looked more like gruel than mashed potatoes.

"Triple frick," I repeated, louder this time.

Desperation clawed at me as I searched for something—anything—that could save this disaster of a meal. Butter? Maybe butter would help. I grabbed a stick from the fridge and hastily chopped off a chunk, dropping it into the bowl. As it melted, I mashed again with renewed vigor.

It didn't help. The potatoes were now both lumpy and watery—a combination that was far from appetizing.

"Great," I muttered under my breath.

I stepped back from the counter, surveying my attempts at a home-cooked meal gone wrong. The ham was overcooked on one side; the corn had burnt bits mixed in, and the mashed potatoes looked like something out of a nightmare.

Tears prickled at my eyes again but I blinked them away furiously. This wasn't just about food; it was about proving something to myself—and maybe to Cooper too—that I could contribute in some small way.

But standing there in my kitchen full of half-burnt food and lumpy potatoes, all I felt was frustration and defeat.

"Frick," I whispered one last time as I leaned against the counter, trying to figure out how to salvage this meal before Cooper arrived.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Cooper stepped inside, his nose wrinkling almost immediately.

"What's burning?" he asked, eyebrows shooting up.

I forced a smile, brushing a stray lock of hair from my eyes. "Well," I began, my voice trembling slightly. "I tried... um, I tried to make you a nice, home-cooked meal."

He crossed the room in a few long strides, peering over my shoulder to inspect the food. The ham, the corn, the sad bowl of mashed potatoes—none of it escaped his scrutiny.

"Were you planning on killing me, sweetie?" he asked, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Of course not," I replied quickly, though my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"I'll just order something," he said with a sigh, pulling out his phone. But before dialing, he gave me a long, assessing look. "You know, the ice was empty today. Just like it was yesterday."

"Oh?" I responded weakly as I dumped the potatoes into the trash.

"Look, darling," he said gently, taking the bowl from my hands and setting it aside. "We need to get you out of this house."

"If you're saying you need me to leave?—"

He grabbed my chin gently, lifting my face so our eyes met. "Hey," he murmured. "That's not what I'm saying at all. You know that. What I am saying is not to let some asshole take away something good from you when he's already taken so much. We can't go back in time and change what happened, but we can choose to move forward."

I breathed deeply, feeling the weight of his words settle over me like a warm blanket. "What are you saying?" I asked quietly.

Cooper's gaze softened even more. "I'm saying it's time for you to get back on the ice."

His words echoed in my mind, their simplicity holding a depth that shook me. Everything I longed to explore had been tainted. Zach worked at the skate counter, and he stole my first kiss. My first everything.

"It's not a first anything unless you freely give it," Cooper had said, his voice firm yet gentle.

"You really think so?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"I know so," he replied, his eyes steady and sure.

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the air in my lungs before releasing it slowly. "May I ask you for a favor?"

"Name it," he said without hesitation.

"Will you show me what a good kiss feels like?" The words tumbled out of me, raw and unfiltered. "I think I just need to gain some semblance of control over myself, and I've always… it's silly, but I've always wanted a perfect first kiss."

"There's no such thing," he said, his brow furrowing slightly.

"I'm sure there is," I insisted. "With the right person."

"Well, I can assure you, sugar, I'm not the right person," he said, shaking his head slightly.

"You are," I said with conviction. "For me." I took a step closer to him, my heart pounding in my chest. "Please."

"You really want someone like me to be your first kiss?" His voice was filled with doubt as he looked at me.

I bit my bottom lip but nodded. His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a moment before returning to mine.

Cooper hesitated, the conflict clear in his eyes. But then he sighed deeply, as if resigning himself to something inevitable. He reached out and gently cupped my face with his roughened hand. His touch was warm and grounding.

"If this is what you want…" he began softly.

"It is," I whispered back.

He leaned in slowly, giving me ample time to pull away if I wanted to. But I didn't. My heart pounded in my chest so hard, I was sure he could hear it. None of it mattered, though. Not when he touched me.

His lips brushed against mine tentatively at first, testing the waters. When I didn't recoil, he pressed a little harder. The kiss was soft but firm, a promise wrapped in tenderness. It wasn't rushed or demanding; it was everything Zach's had never been.

My hands found their way to Cooper's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my fingertips. The world seemed to fade away until there was only him and this moment between us.

When he finally pulled away, it was slow and reluctant, as if he too wanted to linger in the moment just a little longer. His thumb brushed against my cheek, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His eyes held mine, filled with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"Wow," I breathed out, my fingers brushing against my lips as if to confirm the reality of what had just happened. It felt surreal, like a dream I didn't want to wake from.

"You'll come to the rink tomorrow then?" Cooper's voice broke through the haze, grounding me back in the present.

I nodded, unable to trust my voice. The weight of what had just transpired hung between us, heavy yet comforting.

If Cooper asked me to walk the expanse of the state, I'd do it without hesitation. In that moment, I knew I'd do anything he wanted.