The Stranger I Married-Chapter 61: I’m scared

The kitchen was filled with golden morning light and the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee. Ella padded in barefoot, still in that "just pajamas" set that Nicholas had insisted wasn’t just anything, her hair a tousled mess of soft waves. Nicholas stood at the stove, already shirtless and smug, flipping waffles like he’d done it a hundred times, though she was certain this was a first.

"You’re suspiciously good at this," she said, sliding up behind him and resting her chin on his shoulder. He tilted his head, brushing a kiss against her temple.

"Don’t sound so surprised, wife. I have hidden depths."

"Right. And here I thought your only talents were making messes and driving me crazy."

"Multitalented," he replied without missing a beat.

Ella moved to the counter, grabbing a bowl and starting to whisk eggs. "So is this what our mornings look like now?" she asked lightly, cracking another egg, her tone teasing. "You cook, I clean up after you?"

Nicholas looked over his shoulder, grin slow and dangerous. "I’d rather make a different kind of mess you clean up."

Ella rolled her eyes, throwing a pinch of flour in his direction. It dusted his shoulder, and he turned slowly to face her, mock affronted.

"Did you just assault me with baking ingredients?"

She smirked. "You deserved it."

Nicholas stepped closer, dipping two fingers into the flour bag and flicking it back at her. A pale puff landed across her collarbone.

"Okay," she said, backing up with a laugh, "that’s how we’re playing this?"

In seconds, the kitchen was chaos. Flour flew through the air, dusting the counter, the cabinets, and them. Nicholas lunged toward her and she shrieked, ducking behind the island with a handful of sugar she never got the chance to throw—he caught her first, hands locking around her waist as he lifted her off the ground and spun her around.

"You’re insane," she gasped between laughs, white powder smearing her cheek, her arms wrapped around his neck as he set her down.

"You love it," he murmured, and just like that, the mood shifted.

He was close. Too close. His flour-dusted hands splayed on her hips, holding her in place. Her laughter faded into something quieter, breath catching as his gaze dropped to her mouth.

"We’re making waffles," she reminded him, though her voice lacked conviction.

"Are we?" His voice was low, rough, laced with intent. "Because I’m pretty sure what I’m about to do to you is not waffle-related."

Her heart thudded against her ribs, heat curling through her like wildfire. "Nicholas..."

He stepped in even closer, backing her against the flour-coated counter. His mouth brushed her jaw, trailing to her ear. "You said something about being good," he murmured. "I’m trying. I really am."

Her fingers found the waistband of his pajama pants, gripping the soft fabric like it could tether her. "Try harder," she whispered, half breathless, half daring.

He chuckled low in his throat, hands sliding under her pajama top, palms hot against her bare skin. "You’re not helping."

Ella tipped her head back, closing her eyes as he kissed down her neck, slow and deliberate. "You started the flour fight."

"You flicked first."

"You flirted first."

His mouth curved against her skin. "Always do."

Their laughter faded into quiet gasps and whispered names, fingers slipping under cloth, hips finding a slow, teasing rhythm against the counter’s edge. The kitchen smelled of sugar, heat, and something undeniably them.

The waffles burned.

Neither of them noticed.

The sharp scent of something over-toasted was the first thing to cut through the haze.

Ella blinked, dazed, cheeks flushed and lips kiss-bruised as she lifted her head from where she’d half-collapsed against Nicholas’s chest. Somewhere in the background, the waffle maker hissed in protest, the unmistakable smell of char rising into the air.

"Oh no," she murmured, pushing lightly at Nicholas’s chest as laughter threatened to bubble up again. "We killed breakfast."

"We can make more," Nicholas said, completely unbothered, his hands still possessively warm on her waist. He leaned in to nip at the corner of her mouth. "That wasn’t the main course anyway."

She smacked his shoulder—gently. "You’re incorrigible."

"And yet, you’re still pressed up against me in a kitchen coated in flour, wearing the tiniest excuse for pajamas, looking like sin and sunshine." He grinned. "I think I’m winning."

Ella pulled back, just enough to reach around him and unplug the waffle iron. "You think everything’s a game."

"Only the fun things." He licked a smudge of flour from his thumb, eyes lingering on her. "And you, wife, are my favorite."

She should have rolled her eyes. Should have playfully shoved him away and started remaking the batter. But instead, Ella stood there, watching him with something softer curling under her ribs. The ridiculousness of their morning—of burnt waffles and flour in her hair—should’ve felt chaotic, but it didn’t.

It felt like home.

Nicholas watched her watch him, and something shifted again. The teasing in his expression faded, replaced by something quieter. His hand came up to tuck her hair behind her ear, fingers lingering against her cheek.

"You okay?" he asked, voice lower now, that edge of concern he tried so hard to hide slipping through.

Ella nodded slowly. "I think I’m better than okay."

His smile softened. No smirk this time. Just that devastating tenderness he reserved only for her.

"Good," he said, kissing her forehead again, a little slower this time. "Because I’m not going anywhere. Not after this morning. Not after... all of it."

"Even if I set your kitchen on fire?"

"We’ll eat charred waffles forever," he promised solemnly.

She laughed, and he kissed the sound right off her lips.

They eventually sat on the kitchen floor, backs against the cabinets, eating fruit straight from the container while the waffle maker cooled on the counter, forgotten. Ella curled into his side, her bare legs stretched across his lap, and Nicholas fed her slices of strawberry like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it was.

Maybe this—chaos and intimacy and burnt breakfast—was what falling in love with your husband looked like.

And as he leaned down to kiss the corner of her mouth, sticky with juice and laughter, she thought she wouldn’t mind waking up to flour fights and whispered promises for the rest of her life.

Later, the mess didn’t matter.

Flour still dusted the countertops. The waffle iron sat, charred evidence of distraction, and somewhere under the cabinets, a lone strawberry had rolled out of reach. But none of it mattered—not when Ella was curled into Nicholas’s lap on the kitchen floor, his arms wrapped firmly around her, her cheek resting against his bare shoulder.

She could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. It calmed her, anchored her.

"I think," she murmured, reaching up to lazily trace the curve of his collarbone, "this is the most peace I’ve felt in... maybe ever."

Nicholas’s arms tightened, and his chin dropped to rest lightly atop her head. "Told you. Waffles are healing." ƒrēenovelkiss.com

Ella huffed out a quiet laugh. "You’re not even sorry."

"About the waffles? Tragic loss, sure. But about you in my lap like this, looking at me like you might actually believe in me?" He tilted her face up gently, gaze locked on hers. "Not even a little bit sorry."

She didn’t look away. Couldn’t. His eyes, stormy and full of something vast and quietly breaking, held her in place. The teasing charm was still there, always would be with him—but beneath it was something real. Steady. Unshakable.

"Nicholas," she said quietly, her voice thick with everything she couldn’t quite say.

He leaned in, slow, deliberate, his forehead brushing against hers. "Say it."

Her breath caught. "I’m scared."

"I know."

"I don’t know how to do this."

"You don’t have to." He brushed his lips against hers—not a kiss, not really. Just warmth, and promise. "You don’t have to figure it out all at once. You just... stay. Here. With me."

She closed her eyes, her hand fisting lightly in the fabric of his pajama pants. "What if I mess it up?"

"Then we clean it up." His voice was firm now, sure. "Same way we’ll clean up this kitchen."

Her eyes fluttered open again, and for once, she believed him.

They sat there a while longer, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of shared breath and slow touches. She played with the edge of the waistband at his hip, fingers brushing bare skin just to feel him, real and warm and hers.

And then he shifted under her, lifting her chin with a single knuckle. "Hey."

She met his eyes. "Yeah?"

His smile was a little crooked this time, like it was just for her. "I’m going to kiss you now."

"You’ve already kissed me."

He leaned in, slow and intense. "Not like this."

And he didn’t.

This time, there was no teasing. No smirk or half-laugh between them. Just his mouth on hers, deep and steady, the kind of kiss that made her forget where she ended and he began. His hands tangled in her hair, and she sighed into him, soft and wanting, her legs sliding more fully into his lap.

He groaned softly against her lips, hands skimming under her top again, reverent and hungry all at once. "God, Ella..."

She shifted in his lap, deliberately now, and the kiss turned hotter, teeth and tongue and everything they’d been holding back since that first night.

The flour in her hair. The mess behind them. The world waiting beyond the front door.

All of it faded.

All that existed was this—his hands on her skin, her mouth on his, and the slow, sweet ache of finally letting go.