𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭

chapter 13

By the time you woke up, you felt like your body had just released a taut spring, stretching out as far as it could go. Last night was admittedly hard, since all you could feel was the way Yates's spittle strung across your lips and the feeling of his unyielding hand on your waist, grip so tight it had probably left gouges in your tender skin. And to add another layer to that, you woke up like you always do, with the strange stress that never left you. It hung in your shoulders and legs, bracing for the cold or the dark and for something to malfunction; the ghost of poverty past lounging around in your body like it's a patio chair.

You sat up with a yawn, rubbing the bleariness from your eyes. With a quick time check, you realized it was already eleven am, the sunlight relentless. You got out of bed, already dreading the terse journey downstairs. So, instead, you brushed your teeth, took a shower, and got dressed, killing off another hour. There was no knock on your door. No apologies- just radio silence. Still, you were hungry and you'd rather confront Yates on your own terms. Shake him so hard a nickel comes out. You jogged down the stairs, lips pursing as you heard a sizzling and the telltale click of the gas stove igniting.

"Good morning," Yates said, giving you the biggest grin you'd seen since you first agreed to be his girlfriend. He was wearing an apron that said kiss the chef, a pair of shorts, and a chef hat. You quirked a brow, surveying the mess he'd made. At least half of the counter was coated in a fine dusting of flour, the other half similarly covered in a dizzying array of pots, pans, bowls, and batter coated utensils. "I'm making breakfast." He paused. "To apologize," he clarified.

You crossed your arms over your chest. "Ah."

He perked up at the sound of your response, beaming like a cherub. "So, I tried to make crepes but I kept breaking them when I flipped them so I switched to pancakes but I'm hopeless so I messed that up too," he said, breathless. Yates pointed to the skillet on the stove, a small (almost miniature) pancake sitting in a puddle of bubbling butter. "And after they cook, I'll spread some nutella on them and I bought strawberries this morning too so I cut those up and I'll put them on and them top it off with some whipped cream! How does that sound for a sorry?"

You slid onto a barstool, watching him cook. "We'll see if your sorry is any good when I taste it," you replied, watching him. Without his usual grace, Yates slid the pancake onto a ceramic plate, spinning a jar of nutella towards him. After painstakingly making sure that every inch of the pancake was covered, he started to lay on the strawberries- excruciatingly slowly too, probably enjoying your stomach rumbling as you watched him prepare breakfast. Finally, he topped it off and slid it towards you, giving you a little bow.

"Enjoy."

You didn't grace him with a reply, instead digging your fork into the tender pancake and shoving a bite into your mouth. It was good- then again, who could really mess up a pancake and toppings? Still, it was sweet that he did all of this for you, since he was such an awful cook. Yates watched you eat, his chin resting in his palms. "Well?"

You shrugged, not ready to completely give in just yet. "Passable."

He raised his brows. "Passable? Whatever, I have more tricks up my sleeve."

You set your fork down. "What?"

"When you finish, go check my bedroom."

"Yates, why-"

"Please?"

You didn't object. After finishing, you went upstairs, Yates following you. There was a cream bag, stuffed some see through paper and clothes. "What is this?"

"..a gift." Just as you opened your mouth to object, Yates put a finger on your lips, shaking his head. "Go get ready. I will too." He picked up the bag and thrust it into your hands, grinning. "You'll look great."

You peeked into the bag as you walked back into your room, rummaging around. It seemed to be a long, slinky, satin piece of fabric; a dress. You unraveled it, discarding the bag. The dress was a marvel- the fabric was so soft, it felt as if you were running your hands through rushing water, soft and palatable. The leg of mutton sleeves ran to wrists, twinkling buttons lining the cuffs. The dress also featured a more fitted middle portion, similar to built in stays, that the skirt flowed from, a slit running up to just above your knee. It was risque, but wearable- at least Yates knew you that well. Still, you couldn't help marvelling at the exquisite piece of clothing in front of you. Hell, it must've cost hundreds. And yet, you didn't feel guilty or unworthy. This was the bare minimum of an apology, especially after how rough he was with you last night.