Page 6 of The Intimacy of Control

Once my breathing evened out, my eyes had closed, and I’d fallen fast asleep. I didn’t even remember dreaming.

chapter three

I’d been plagued by the same nightmare every single night for… I wasn’t even sure how long anymore. They’d started back up sometime after Grandma died, which meant it’d been a few years at least. At first, they didn’t really bother me. I could still sleep through the night, and I’d assumed they’d stop once I’d processed the shock and grief of losing her like I had.

They didn’t stop.

So, then, I thought I’d get used to them or something. I’d be able to ignore them and go about my days like nothing was wrong.

I didn’t. I couldn’t.

They got more and more lifelike, and I started waking up in cold, suffocating sweat multiple times a night; some nights, I wouldn’t sleep at all. Falling asleep was difficult. Staying asleep was even harder. And then came the need for control, like I’d never experienced before. I’d always been a little bit of a control freak, but not to this extent. I started to obsess over it. It also kept me awake at night. It kept me from doing things outside of work. It’d started to take over my life in a way it never had before.

There were three things I noticed when I finally opened my eyes: I’d slept through the entire night, I hadn’t had any nightmares, and I could smell something really fucking good coming from the kitchen. Forrest must’ve been making breakfast or something.

I threw the blankets off myself and peered over the edge of the bed, noticing not only that the floor was hardwood but also that my pants and boxers weren’t there anymore. I peered around the room, squinting from how bright the sun already was. There was a small stool in the corner with my useless shirt, pants, and boxers all neatly folded on it. Huh. How kind.

Once I’d put my pants on, I made my way down the hallway. The further I went, the easier I could hear the sound of music blaring and Forrest belting the lyrics right along with it. I followed his voice, cutting through the living room to stand right outside the open kitchen, where Forrest was having the absolute time of his life, wearing only his briefs.

His back was turned to me, his hips moving and his head bobbing to “Uprising” as he sang the chorus—a fellow Muse fan, it seemed. I was content to silently watch him, tracing the black ink that spread along his back and the designs that curled around the back of his arms. He was fucking covered in tattoos, all of them twitching and dancing with each twitch of his muscles. Fuck, he was so hot.

Right as the song started to end, he turned around, immediately jumping back. “Holy fuck! Oh, Jesus Christ.” His back hit the counter as he put a hand over his heart. “You scared the fuck out of me. I didn’t know you were awake.”

I was laughing. I couldn’t help it. “I noticed. What’re you doing?”

He looked me up and down, a smirk forming on his lips. “Right now? Thinking about taking you right back to bed.”

“Mm, sorry, but you’ve definitely worn me out.” I was sore and achy all over in the best possible way. He’d somehow made it unscathed, whereas I was sure I had at least some scratches or bruises. I hoped I had bruises.

“Well, in that case, I made us some breakfast. If you want to take a seat at the table, I’ll bring your plate.”

There was a small round table off to the side. I sat in the matching wooden chair, immediately thinking of Callum and all the stuff he’d made from the same-looking wood. “What’d you make?”

“Classic. Eggs and sausage links. I have some bread in the toaster if you want some, too. I don’t know what you like, so I went the safe route.” He sat a plate in front of me.

“Oh, this looks delicious. How’d you know I like my eggs runny?” I took the fork he’d handed me and gently poked the yolk.

“Just a hunch. How are you feeling?”

“Perfect, thank you. That was fun last night. I can’t really say I expected to wake up and see you dancing while you cooked breakfast. Do you like cooking?”

He’d walked over to the toaster, coming back with two slices of toast. He set one down on my plate before sitting in front of me with his. “I guess so. It isn’t my favorite thing in the world to do, but I love food. I wouldn’t say I’m very good at it, though.”

I swallowed a forkful, pleasantly surprised at how good he’d somehow made something so simple. I wasn’t sure if he’d just used different spices than I was used to, or if it was because I wasn’t the one who’d made it. “Not good at it? This is amazing.” I cut into one of the sausage links and swirled it in the yolk. “You know, my best friend says the same thing. He doesn’t think he’s very good at it and really doesn’t have much passion for it. I think otherwise.”

“Yeah? Everything I’ve learned, I’ve learned from mi mamá, but I can never do it like she does. Does your friend cook a lot?”

“Not as much anymore. He used to cook in a restaurant here, but now he’s one of the managers, which means he isn’t cooking daily anymore.”

“No shit.” He raised an eyebrow, leaning back a little. “Which place?”

“Fire and Ice. He worked with the owner and his husband way before they opened up.”

Forrest’s jaw dropped as he paused, halfway lifting the toast. “Holy shit. That’s, like, famous. Your friend works there? He cooked with Price Iverson?”

Oh, Callum would definitely get a kick out of this. So would Price, from what I’d learned about him. I tried to hold back my laughter as I nodded. “Sure did. He’s a lot happier as a manager, that’s for sure. His boyfriend was a cook there, too.”

“So you know famous people.” He was barely looking as he put his scrambled eggs on top of the toast. “That’s really cool. Does he make a lot of money?”