Page 74 of The Best Shot

He closed the fridge. Opened it again.

“I can do eggs.”

I raised a brow.

“I’m very good at eggs.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve made every variation that exists. Scrambled. Poached. Shakshuka. Had a whole Turkish eggs phase. There was a three-week frittata period.”

“A frittata period?”

“Covid was so fucking boring, Yaz.”

I laughed under my breath. “That’s your origin story?”

“Pretty much.”

I sat at the kitchen table, its wood worn smooth from generations of elbows pressed into it.

He pulled a cast iron skillet from the cupboard as the sky outside deepened into that last shade of blue. A sun-faded cotton curtain stirred in the breeze, its delicate embroidered edge brushing above tiny pots of herbs lined along the windowsill.

I found myself wondering where I would fit in a place like this, if I would fit at all.

Would he make room?

The question tasted dangerous, sweet and terrifying at the same time. Because part of me wanted to see him clear a little space in all this old wood and say, yeah, that’s yours now.

I didn’t say any of that. I sat back.

And he made eggs.

22

“YOU’RE FASCINATING.”

YASMINE

Isent CeeCee a quick text.

Me: Hey. Staying out tonight. Don’t wait up.

She answered with a single photo, one sad piece of string cheese centered perfectly on the kitchen counter like modern art.

CeeCee wasn’t usually funny like this. A little distance from Shaun was working wonders. I sent back the appropriate eye roll and middle finger, then set my phone facedown.

I was wearing Hale’s shirt. It fell mid-thigh, his scent still in the cotton. And I was in his bed.

We’d been avoiding beds since that first night, for sleep or anything else. So I didn’t have a good explanation for why I was here now, legs bare against his sheets, heart doing something stupid in my chest.

The bathroom door opened. He stepped out wearing soft gray sweatpants and nothing else, water still glistening on his shoulders and chest. Then he crossed to the dresser, picked up a small jar, and started working oil through his locs with careful hands.

He looked like a photograph already.

I reached for my phone before the thought had fully formed, opened the camera, and raised it.

The shutter sound broke the quiet. He froze, eyes flicking to mine in the mirror.