A SECOND CHANCE AT FOREVER Chapter 45: CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

ASHLEY

I wasn’t sure when I finally drifted off to sleep, but when I opened my eyes, the room was still cloaked in the soft gray of early morning. The weight of last night pressed down on me before I even sat up—the chaos, the fear, the lifeless body slumped at the table.

Charles Whittaker was dead.

I inhaled shakily, gripping the blanket tighter around me as if it could hold back the memories flooding in. The murmur of voices, the gasps, the way my heart had pounded so violently I thought it would burst from my chest. But louder than all of that had been one singular thought, one frantic plea running through my mind over and over.

Where’s him?

Find him. Find him.

I hadn’t wanted to need him, but I did. And when my eyes finally locked with his, it was like the ground beneath me steadied for the first time all night.

And now, I was here—in his bed, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, safe behind walls that felt both comforting and dangerous. Because it wasn’t just last night that unsettled me.

It was him.

He’d always been the complication I never wanted but somehow couldn’t avoid.

I glanced at the empty space beside me, the sheets untouched and cool. Was he okay? Had he stayed up all night, lost in his thoughts like I was lost in mine?

I wasn’t sure what unsettled me more—the lingering terror from last night or the way my chest tightened every time I thought about him.

This was the second time I’d slept at his place in less than a month. So much for avoiding him.

With a quiet sigh, I pushed the blanket aside and got out of bed. My bare feet made no sound against the hardwood floor as I padded to the bathroom.

I caught my reflection in the mirror and winced. My hair was a tangled mess, and faint traces of mascara smudged beneath my eyes. I turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run over my fingers before splashing my face, hoping to wash away some of the exhaustion clinging to me.

I reached for a hand towel hanging beside the sink, drying my face with a soft exhale. My hair was another issue entirely, but I ran my fingers through it, smoothing it down enough to look somewhat presentable.

Not that it mattered. It was just Kyle.

Just Kyle.

Still, there was a flutter in my chest as I left the bathroom and padded toward the door. The faint scent of something savory drifted through the air—garlic, butter, and…was that bacon?

Kyle was cooking.

Curiosity pulled me toward the kitchen. I stopped at the doorway, leaning against the frame as I took in the scene before me.

He stood with his back to me, shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-hanging sweatpants that clung to his hips in a way that made my mouth go dry. His hair was tousled, like he’d run his hands through it too many times, and the muscles in his back shifted with every movement as he expertly flipped whatever was sizzling in the pan.

There was something hypnotic about him like this—focused, quiet, and effortlessly in control.

The soft hum of the stove’s burner, the rhythmic chop of a knife against the cutting board, and the faint sound of bacon crackling in the pan filled the room. He moved with ease, every action deliberate yet relaxed, like this was second nature to him. The early morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow over him, highlighting every sharp angle and smooth line of his body.

Since when did cooking look so...attractive?

The tension from last night still clung to me, but now, it mingled with something else—something dangerous. My eyes lingered on the curve of his shoulders and the defined muscles in his arms

He ran a hand through his messy hair, sighing softly as he reached for the salt, completely unaware of my presence. The domesticity of it all caught me off guard. 

I didn’t want to admit how long I stood there, watching him, my heart betraying me with every flutter.

But then my foot nudged a stray glass bottle near the counter, sending it rolling across the floor with a clatter loud enough to startle us both.

Kyle turned sharply, spatula in hand, his gray eyes locking onto mine. His expression softened almost instantly.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice low and still husky from sleep. “How’re you feeling?”

“Uh…better,” I replied softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “How about you? Did you sleep?”

He shook his head, offering a faint smile. “Not really, but I’m fine.”

The familiar silence stepped in.

I wasn’t sure what made me want to strike up a conversation, but the silence felt too loud, too full of memories I wasn’t ready to confront. So I spoke.

“Since when did you become such a pro in the kitchen?” I asked, my voice light but curious as I leaned back in my chair, watching him.

Kyle chuckled softly, reaching for two plates from the cupboard. “What, you thought I’ve been surviving on takeout all these years?”

All these years. The words hung in the air longer than they should have, and I felt an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. All these years that we've been divorced.

I swallowed past the lump that formed in my throat. “Well, yeah. You weren’t exactly the chef type back then. You nearly set the apartment on fire—twice.”

“That was once,” he corrected, narrowing his eyes at me in mock offense. “And it wasn’t my fault! That toaster was defective.”

I arched a brow, amused. “Defective, huh? Sure, blame the toaster. What about the time you burned popcorn so badly the smoke alarm wouldn’t stop screeching?”

He groaned, shaking his head with a grin. “Okay, fine. That one was on me. But in my defense, who knew the ‘popcorn’ button wasn’t actually reliable?”

I laughed softly, the sound foreign but welcome in the quiet kitchen. It felt...strange, how easy it was to slip back into this rhythm with him. Like no time had passed at all. Like there weren’t years of hurt and unspoken words between us, lingering just beneath the surface.

“Guess miracles do happen,” I teased, leaning my elbows on the table as I watched him stir the eggs.

“Watch it,” he warned playfully, pointing a spatula at me. “I’ve upgraded from ‘culinary disaster’ to ‘passably decent.’”

“Passably decent?” I echoed with a smirk. “Wow, aim high.”

“Hey, we can’t all be gourmet chefs. Some of us have to settle for functional adult status.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. The easy banter, the teasing—it was all so familiar. And painfully so.

He turned back to the stove, adding a final sprinkle of salt to the eggs. For a moment, the kitchen was quiet again, save for the faint sizzle of bacon and the hum of the refrigerator. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was...safe. Like slipping into an old, worn-in sweater you forgot you still had tucked away.

Kyle glanced over his shoulder, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “I figured you could use a decent breakfast after...you know.”

My heart skipped a beat at the sincerity in his voice. “Thanks,” I murmured, suddenly feeling a little shy under his gaze.

“Don’t mention it,” he said casually, though his eyes lingered on me a second longer before he turned back to finish up. “Sit down. Food’s almost ready.”

I did as he said, settling into one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. My fingers traced the grain of the wood as I watched him move around the kitchen with ease—grabbing forks, pouring coffee, adding a final sprinkle of salt to the eggs. It was so...domestic. And painfully familiar.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was...comfortable. Like slipping on an old sweatshirt you thought you lost, only to find it tucked away in the back of your closet.

Kyle finally brought the plates over, setting one in front of me and one across from me. The smell was enough to make my stomach grumble again, and I realized just how hungry I was.

“Looks good,” I admitted softly, glancing up at him as he slid into the seat opposite me.

“I aim to impress,” he replied with a lopsided grin, taking a bite of his toast.

I picked up my fork, the warmth of the food already soothing me in ways I didn’t expect. “So, is this your secret talent now? Winning hearts through breakfast?”

Kyle chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “What can I say? Cooking’s cheaper than therapy.”

I smirked. “And tastier.”

“Exactly.” He tilted his head, studying me for a moment. “What about you? Still burning water?”

“Rude,” I shot back, rolling my eyes. “I’ve improved...a little.”

“Oh? Should I be worried?”

“Shut up,” I laughed softly, shaking my head. “I can at least make a decent grilled cheese now.”

“Wow, you really have grown.”

“Don’t push your luck,” I warned playfully, taking another bite.

For a moment, it was easy to forget the world outside this kitchen. Easy to forget the past and the reasons we didn’t work out. It was just...us. Sharing breakfast, teasing each other, pretending that nothing had changed.

But the truth lingered just beneath the surface.

Because everything had changed.

And no amount of scrambled eggs and coffee could erase that.