Southern Heart (Southern 5)

I want to say something, but the timer dings, and I turn around, opening the oven door. The heat hits me right away as I grab the oven mitt and pull out the biscuits. The golden brown color is perfect. "I’m going to whip you up some broth." I look over at him, and I see him trying to get up off the couch. I walk over to the fridge, taking the broth I made yesterday for him. I scoop some in a bowl and pop it in the microwave.

"I hate that you have to cook a different meal for me," he says to me. "I’m good with the biscuits and gravy." I stand here looking at him. The ink on his arm is so bright in the light as the sunlight comes into the windows, and he walks into the yellow light.

“How about you wait three days, and then I can make it for you then?” He just nods his head.

"I wish I could help you set up the table or something." His brown eyes turn a soft green as he stands with the sun on his face. His beard is thicker than it’s ever been before. "Where are we going to eat?"

"Let’s eat on the couch. I know I said you have to get on your feet, but let’s not overdo it. Go sit back down, and I’ll bring you your things,” I say, walking over to the white cabinet and pulling out two white plates. "We can set you up so it’s more comfortable for you." I look over at him and see his leg is shaking just a touch as he puts his hand on the island, trying to put pressure off. "Can you stop being such a macho man and go back to the couch?”

"I’m not being a macho man," he hisses, and I see his chest is heaving like he is panting.

"I know that you think you can just dust yourself off, but you were shot and stabbed." I start to tell him as I plate and then pull open one of the biscuits, and the steam comes out of them. "But your body needs time to heal. Pushing yourself too hard will just set you back down the line."

"I’m not used to just sitting down and doing nothing," he says, and I smile at him.

"Do you want apple juice or orange juice?" I ask, and he sits on a stool at the island.

"Ethan said your biscuits are better than your grandmother’s." He smirks at me.

"I learned it from her," I say, breaking open two biscuits and then scooping up the white sausage gravy. "But I’ve put my own twist on it." I turn back and see that he is looking at me. "Do you need help getting back to the couch?"

"No." He shakes his head, and I just chuckle.

"Okay, macho man," I say, grabbing two forks. "Suit yourself." I watch him turn now and take a step and stop. “Are you sure you don’t need help?"

"No," he hisses at me and side-eyes me.

"I would watch that tone, Mayson," I tell him. "I would hate to have you watch me eat this meal.”

"You wouldn’t do that to me,” he says, turning and walking back to the couch. He sits down slowly. I walk to one of the drawers and take out two trays. I put the bowl of broth on his with orange and apple juice. I place my plate on the other one. I carry his first and put it on the table.

"Put your feet up," I tell him, and he turns and puts his feet on the couch, and even though I know he’s going to hate it, I put my arm under his feet helping him. "Now, was that so hard?" He glares at me, and I roll my lips. I hand him his tray, grabbing a dish towel and handing it to him. "Did you need a bib?" I hand him his bowl of broth, our fingers grazing when he grabs it from me. I feel the heat from his fingers even when I turn back to grab my own plate.

"That mouth of yours." He shakes his head, looking straight at me. "One of these days, it’s going to get you in a world of trouble."

I laugh now, ignoring the way my stomach just flipped as he looked at me. "You see, it shows we’ve never had a conversation," I tell him, looking sideways at him, cutting a piece of the biscuit. "Because my mouth has been getting me into trouble since I started talking." His eyes on me, I say, “You can only have a bite.” I hold the fork up for him, his hand goes to mine on the fork and I try not to shake with nerves from his touch, and he leans in.