Lila
He made dinner for her, and even though it wasn't the first time, something about being separated from their lives like this, when no one knew where they were, brought an extra sense of…tension. The lovely, shivery kind. Lila sat at the dining table, watching Dane move around the small kitchen, humming as he worked. He was in a t-shirt and she couldn't take her eyes off his forearms—the way the tendons stood out on his hands, the way his muscles rolled. The gentleness and care he could take, even when he was so strong.
By the time he served her a crumbed chicken breast in a delicious sauce, her breath was coming faster. "Thank you," she said breathily as he set it on the table in front of her and poured a glass of white wine. He caught the tone in her voice and looked at her for the first time in forty-five minutes and his eyes darkened.
"You're welcome." His voice had gotten even deeper.
