Mission Love - Chasing Mr. Right ✓

Thirty- five

Recap: Ryan.. in my dream..begging..

I hesitated at the door, fingers twitching against the handle. My mind was still spinning from the dream—or whatever that nightmare was. The thought of seeing Ryan right now made my stomach twist, and I could already feel the knot tightening. But curiosity had a funny way of getting under your skin, and it wasn't about to let me walk away from this.

The smell of something warm and savory hit me the moment I cracked the door open. Was Ryan... cooking?

I poked my head around the doorframe, and there he was. Ryan. Barefoot, wearing an apron. The gray sweatpants hung low on his hips—far too low for my sanity—and the black T-shirt stretched over his shoulders, barely clinging to the muscle definition. His hair still damp, messy, clumped tangle that screamed he'd just gotten out of the shower. Ugh

He stirred something in a pan, in slow fluid movements. Each deliberate movement of his arm teasing the faint flex of his shoulders. Steam curled upward, and the soft scrape of metal on metal filled the room.

My brain just stopped working. As I stared shamelessly. Wait! No. He could turn around at any moment.
What if he catches me shamelessly gawking at him?

The thought of being caught made my heart stutter. But I couldn't look away. I shouldn't have been looking at him like that, but...

I stared longer than I should have, trying to decide whether this was real or just another cruel extension of my earlier humiliation.

"Sit on my face.."

I shut my eyes tight when the voice, his voice whispered back from the nightmare-ish- dream.

Was I still dreaming?
No way!

The light bulb in my head went off when I noticed the fork on the counter glinting under the light.

It wasn't just a fork; it was my weapon to survive this ultimate boss fight.

I tiptoed, near the counter and grabbed the fork. Cautiously slid behind him, like a burglar—no, wait-a rogue agent on a mission. I raised it, and before I could change my mind, I lightly jabbed his shoulder with it.

Ryan stiffened slightly, then turned his head, that familiar smirk already on his lips.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice light, amused.

"Making sure you're real," I muttered, still holding the fork like it was a weapon.

He raised an eyebrow, as he turned fully to face me. His gaze softened, and a small smile played at his lips. "And?"

"You seem real enough," I muttered, quickly setting the fork down, my fingers shaking slightly as I pretended to be busy with playing with the hem of my t-shirt.

Ryan's gaze followed me, amused. "You're acting weird."

"No, I'm not," I said quickly. Too quickly. I could feel the heat crawling up my neck.

He didn't say anything for a moment, just turned back to the stove. "Uh-huh," was all he offered, the smirk still lingering on his lips.

"Hungry?" he asked, his tone casual, as if he hadn't just thrown me off balance in the space of a few seconds.

"A bit," I admitted, stepping closer to the counter. Plates were already set out, and a glass of water sat beside them. Always annoyingly thoughtful. I grabbed the glass, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that Ryan—of all people—was standing there, beside me, cooking food like a professional chef oblivious to the chaos I had just been woken up from.