If Only (GxG)

Chapter 23 Normalcy

A/N
🎶 Linger by The Cranberries🎶

『 °*• ❀ •*°』
Alison's POV

Blake's penthouse was warm, the rich scent of simmering tomatoes and fresh basil filling the air.

Outside, the London skyline was softened by the rain, droplets sliding down the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the city lights into a dreamy blur.

It was the kind of night made for staying in, wrapped up in blankets, with a book in hand and the woman I loved beside me.

Instead, I was watching my impossibly gorgeous girlfriend stare down a saucepan like it had personally wronged her.

"You're doing it again," I teased, leaning against the counter, arms crossed as I took in the sight of her—messy dark waves falling over one shoulder, the collar of her oversized sweater slipping just enough to reveal a teasing hint of collarbone. She was utterly unfair to look at.

Blake arched a perfectly shaped brow, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the sauce with what could only be described as deep distrust. "Doing what?"

I smirked. "Glaring at your food like it owes you an apology."

She let out a dramatic sigh, setting the spoon down with the air of a woman forced into a great and terrible burden. "I don't understand why people cook when there are perfectly good chefs out there who dedicate their lives to feeding us."

I laughed, stepping closer until I could rest my hands on her hips, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of her sweater. "Because it's fun, pretty girl." I pressed a slow kiss between her shoulder blades, breathing her in—the dark, expensive scent of her perfume, mixed with something softer, something inherently Blake.

She melted slightly, tilting her head back against my shoulder with a sigh. "Fun? This is chaos."

"It's controlled chaos," I corrected, reaching around her to take the spoon from her hands before she made the situation worse. "Besides, you're the one who insisted on making dinner instead of ordering in."

"I was feeling ambitious," she admitted, voice dipping into something teasing. "Now I'm regretting my choices."

I hummed, brushing a kiss along the side of her throat. "We could always not finish making dinner."

Blake turned her head, catching my lips in a slow, lingering kiss.

Her fingers slipped over my hips, thumbs brushing under my sweater in a way that made my mind go utterly blank.

Then, abruptly, she pulled away, smirking as she picked the spoon back up and resumed stirring.

I gaped at her. "You're evil."

She chuckled, satisfied with herself. "I know."

I huffed, stepping back, pretending to be annoyed, though the warmth in my chest made it impossible.

Blake was an enigma—sleek, poised, and pristine on the outside, but with a teasing streak that ruined me every time.

Sometimes, I found it funny how she could flip between her two modes so easily. Ms. Bradley, the strict, intimidating English teacher, and this Blake—the woman currently sulking over a pan of sauce, all dark curls and soft lips, an absolute menace with a sharp wit and a dangerously good mouth.

The only real consistency between the two versions of her was that she was utterly incapable of cooking.

Which was why I took over, seasoning the sauce properly before turning my attention to the pasta. Blake leaned against the counter, watching me with what I suspected was admiration—but would probably turn into some flirtatious remark.