Chapter 8

Freya 

“No ma'am, Freya, don’t worry about the meal. I’ll take care of it,” I insisted, raising my hands to halt her words. She had already said more than enough. As I opened the cupboard to retrieve some eggs, I noticed the terror painted across her features, and a pang of empathy tugged at me.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” I asked, feigning a smile. “I can make my own meal.” My voice held a snicker, laced with irritation at her lingering presence. Since last night, Demian had been notably absent, and I was still reeling from our last encounter. The thought of him caused my dislike to churn like a storm within me.

Lost in my thoughts, I cracked the eggs into a bowl with slow, deliberate movements, when suddenly, I felt a hand wrap around my waist. A wave of warmth swept over me, accompanied by the unmistakable heat of his breath brushing against my neck, sending a shiver down my spine and a pang of annoyance to my stomach.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Demian's low, flirtatious voice echoed in the kitchen. I chose to ignore him, the audacity of his greeting igniting my frustration even more. He moved in closer, and, against my better judgment, I tilted my neck just enough to grant him access to my face. I felt the soft press of his lips on my cheek, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes heavenward in response.

“Good morning, asshole,” I finally found my voice, attempting to wrestle his hands from my waist as I made my way to the stove. I turned it on, a sharp snap emanating from it as the flame ignited suddenly, causing me to flinch. My heart raced as I stumbled backward, but Demian was quick to catch me, his grip firm as he prevented me from getting too close to the flame that danced dangerously at my face.

“Be careful, Freya,” he cautioned, his voice low with concern that I could barely acknowledge.

“I was! Just get your hands off me,” I barked, pushing him away with a surge of anger. As I was about to storm off, his voice halted me mid-stride.

“I’ll make breakfast on one condition.” I turned to him, a smile creeping onto my lips as I crossed my arms over my chest, leaning casually against the door frame. It seemed my dear husband was eager to play the husband-material card today.

“What’s the condition, Demian?” I asked, curiosity piqued..

"You will feed me throughout," he declared, fixing me with a sultry glance that sent a shiver down my spine. As he retrieved the gleaming pan from the cupboard, the anticipation of the meal danced in the air like a slow-burning flame.

“Just wait,” I chuckled, unable to hold back the laughter that bubbled up inside me. My knees gave way beneath me, and I collapsed to the ground, laughter spilling out uncontrollably. Did he really just suggest that I was going to feed him? The idea was absurd, yet somehow thrilling.

Demian stood there, watching me with a bemused smile as I struggled to catch my breath between bursts of laughter. His arms were crossed, but I could tell by the way his gaze softened that he wasn't as annoyed as I had thought he'd be. He seemed… amused by my reaction.

"What’s so funny?" he asked, though his voice had lost its usual edge, replaced by something more genuine—almost curious.

I wiped my eyes, still giggling uncontrollably, though I was starting to regain some composure. “You—” I gasped for air. “You think I’m going to feed you? After everything that’s happened, you’re asking me to feed you?”

His eyes flickered with a mix of irritation and amusement. “I’m asking you for breakfast, not a lifetime supply of affection,” he replied dryly, though there was a hint of something softer beneath the surface. “But yeah, I wouldn’t mind a little breakfast, Freya. After all, I’m here, aren’t I?”

The absurdity of the situation didn’t escape me. Here he was, acting like the last few months hadn’t been filled with complications and tension between us. Somehow, by simply asking for something as mundane as food, he thought he could undo the damage he’d caused. And yet, there was something… unexpected in the way he stood there, waiting for me to give in.

I wiped away the last of the laughter from my eyes, still feeling a strange mixture of irritation and something else—the feeling I refused to acknowledge. Something about the way he stood there, patiently, despite my protests, made me hesitate.

"You’re unbelievable," I muttered, rolling my eyes as I pulled myself to my feet. "You just can’t help yourself, can you?"

He shrugged casually, unfazed by my disdain. “I can’t. But hey, if you're not going to make breakfast, I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”

I crossed my arms, still unsure of how I felt about this—about him, about us, about the situation that had become so complicated. “Why do you care? Why does it have to be me who does it?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “What is this, some twisted attempt to make things better?”

His expression softened for a brief moment, and I saw something in his eyes that made my stomach twist—regret, maybe? Or was it something else? Before I could analyze it too much, he spoke again, this time with a quiet sincerity that made me pause.

“Listen, Freya,” he said, his tone unexpectedly serious, “sometimes, it’s the little things that matter. I can’t fix everything—hell, I’m not even sure I can fix anything. But I can start by making you breakfast. That has to count for something.”

I stared at him, the weight of his words pressing down between us. I hated that he still made me second-guess myself, that he maintained this hold over me after everything we’d been through. And yet, I realized I couldn’t keep pushing him away forever.

“You really are something else,” I replied, my voice softer than I intended.

Demian’s lips quirked in a knowing smile, the tension between us loosening just a bit. “So, do we have a deal? I cook, and you don’t burn yourself alive this time?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to cling to my anger, but there was no real fire left. “Fine,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But don’t expect me to be nice about it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he shot back, moving toward the stove with an ease that suggested he was used to taking charge—of everything.

I watched him a moment longer, the space between us thick with unspoken thoughts, before I took action and set the table. Maybe it wasn’t much, and maybe this wasn’t the grand reconciliation I envisioned, but it felt like the first step toward something I couldn’t quite define.

As Demian cracked eggs into the pan, the familiar sound of sizzling filled the room. I felt an odd mix of unease and warmth, like a flicker of hope. This wasn’t how I expected things to unfold, but perhaps that was okay.

“Next time,” I declared, taking a seat at the table and crossing my arms, “I’m picking the meal.”

He chuckled, glancing over his shoulder with that infuriating smirk I couldn’t help but find charming. “We’ll see about that, sunshine.”