Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

69. Lullaby, Reprise

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"Dinner's ready."

"Finally," I remarked. "I'm starving."

"You feel up to eatin' all this?" Striker asked as he walked over to the couch and handed me a dinner plate full of food. "You need medicine or anything beforehand?"

I shook my head and flashed him a reassuring smile. "The nausea comes and goes, but it's getting way better. I feel like I can eat a lot more now without getting sick."

"I can tell," he replied with a small smile, sitting down next to me with his own plate and pinching a handful of my ass. "You're gainin' some weight back."

I raised an eyebrow. "And that's a good thing, right? "

"Of course." His smile morphed into a playful smirk. "Gives me somethin' to hold onto."

The heat rose in my cheeks, causing Striker's smirk to widen, and he chuckled in amusement and patted my thigh.

It had been six days since I was discharged from the hospital. I was there for a little over three weeks before they finally released me again. Although my wound was healing well, cleaning and redressing it myself proved more difficult than I'd thought. So one night, I sat Striker down and walked him through the process so he could better assist me.

Striker had really stepped up when I was discharged, helping me out with nearly everything. He cooked meals, cleaned up after both of us — he even helped me when I started showering again. Never in a million years would I have thought that this rugged cowboy imp could possibly mesh so well with the domestic lifestyle.

"You know, when we first met, I would've never guessed that I'd turn you into a homemaker," I teased. "You make such an excellent househusband."

Striker stopped mid-chew, his eyes darting toward me. He stared at me a moment before swallowing and saying in a low drawl, "It's still a little early for you to be callin' me that, darlin'."

My stomach flipped, and I looked away from him and added sheepishly, "Well, house-boyfriend, then."

He half-smiled down at his plate, picking at his food for a moment before taking another bite. Striker had cooked pork chops and fresh green beans for dinner, which were impressively flavorful, and within minutes, I had devoured the entire thing.

"That's the first time in a while that I've seen you clean your plate," Striker commented.

I shrugged. "I was hungry," I responded. "And you're not a bad cook."

He grinned as he finished his last few bites. I moved to stand and take my empty plate to the kitchen, but he stopped me before my butt left the cushion. "No, ma'am," he said, taking my plate and stacking it on top of his. "You stay put."

I watched him turn the corner and disappear into the small cubby that was my kitchen, and I heard the water run and the light clanking of dishes being deposited into the sink.

"Not that I don't enjoy seeing you dote on me like this," I started, "but I hate just sitting around doing nothing all day every day."

"You're healin', darlin'," he argued over the running water. "You shouldn't be doin' anything."

"I know that. But I just — I feel so useless. Like a. . ."

I trailed off, my stomach lurching at the realization.

"Like a burden. . ."

I heard the water abruptly cut off a second or two after I spoke, then footsteps leaving the kitchen and approaching the couch. Striker leaned over the back of the couch, craning his head to look me in the eye. His expression was calm and unreadable, but his eyes glowed with an almost parental sternness. His hand, still damp from the kitchen sink's cold water, took my chin and turned my head to face him.