Emma was beautiful like this, in my kitchen with casual clothes on under the apron. Her hair was gathered in a high ponytail, showing her sweet face. Like this, she looked warm; an easy smile rested on her lips, her cheeks held a natural blush and eyes that were always simple to read. Right now, they said that she was content–happy even.

I didn't like to think I was the cause of it. I was too messed up to cause someone else's joy. And I didn't want to think about how much lighter I felt with her around, either.

Positive feelings for me were alien, and as much as I enjoyed those feelings, they were still unwelcome. Anger was all I'd known for so long. It was what I was used to, and while it wasn't healthy, anger was safe. Who was I if I didn't have that? I didn't want to change. I wasn't ready for change.

Still...if I didn't want change, then I couldn't have Emma either. And I didn't think I'd be able to let her go, even if I'd wanted to.

There was something about her that drew me in, no matter how much I might dislike that fact. But maybe, there was something I liked about it too; I just didn't want to admit it.

"What kind of stir fry are we making?" Emma asked while rolling up her sleeves.

"One with chicken and noodles," I answered gruffly, really not looking forward to teaching her how to cook. When she'd asked me, I'd been taken by surprise and agreed before I registered what exactly I had agreed to. After it was said, I couldn't take it back.

I'd never had anyone in the kitchen with me. This was my sacred place, and I didn't like anyone invading it. Though, I only had myself to blame, agreeing to teach her and all. What was worse was that this would force me to talk more than I was comfortable doing, but I couldn't actually teach her without speaking, could I? Dumb fuck. That was what I was.

"Okay then, put me to work, chef," she said cheekily, and I suppressed a groan. Yeah, I definitely wasn't ready for this.

"Start with the onions, one of each, and chop them finely," I directed, nodding at the red onion and the Spanish onion, and went ahead to bring out the wok pan.

Emma started peeling off the outer layer of the onions while I washed and peeled the carrots. Knowing I was supposed to teach her, I started explaining the dish. "With stir fry, you can pretty much put whatever vegetables you want in it. You don't have to be following a recipe."

"So, paprika?"

"Yes."

"And sweet potatoes?"

"Yes."

"What about asparagus?" she continued, and at this point, I didn't know if she was deliberately trying to annoy me, or genuinely curious.

With a sigh, I answered, "Even asparagus." I looked over to see her staring at the freshly peeled onions with scrunched brows. "There's a knife on your right," I said.

"Uh, right." She grabbed the knife but didn't start cutting. Knowing there was something else she struggled with, I waited until she asked me herself.

It didn't take long before she looked back at me, her cheeks ever redder than earlier. "So, what did you mean by chopping them finely?"

For some reason, that almost made me smile, but I refrained. Walking up to Emma, I stood behind her and grabbed her right hand–the one holding the knife.

"First, this root," I showed her the bottom of the onion. "You'll want to leave this on, or else it will start to bleed, and you'll cry." I was just about to say more when she cut me off.

"Wait, that is causing you to cry? I thought it was the onion in itself." She sounded stunned.

"Mostly, yes. It can still sting a little, but not as much with the root intact."

"It feels like I've been lied to my entire life," she muttered. "Okay, go on. I'm ready to learn."

Another smile tugged on my lips, but this time, I didn't suppress it. She couldn't see it anyway.

"So, to finely chop an onion, you'll want to cut it in half first." I moved my free hand around her and held the onion in place as we cut down in the middle. I tried not to become distracted as I felt her body pressed against my front. My dick didn't get the memo. It hardened against her back, and I knew it was impossible for her not to feel it.

Her body heat burned me and made my pulse quicken. Unbidden images of her in the club, masturbating in front of members, and me, bombarded my mind. That night, I had to force myself not to throw her over my shoulder and carry her away from everyone, as I felt anger and lust war inside me. I'd both hated how others saw what was rightfully mine and my friends' and loved how beautiful it was to see her come out of her shell.

Clearing my throat, I shook the images away and went on to show her how to hold the onion so she wouldn't cut herself. "You should hold it like this, with three fingers, two in front and the thumb behind. You'll want to use your knuckle to guide the knife."

Emma was quiet as she listened to me. With one half of the onion, I showed her exactly how she should cut it into perfect pieces, not too small and not too big.

"I think I got the hang of it, thank you," she said softly. I pulled myself away from her, not wanting her to feel my cock twitch at her voice. I had noticed how she'd started to talk in a lower tone, like a whisper, whenever she said something to me. It was as if she'd changed her own voice to fit mine, and not only did I find it cute, but for some reason, it made me hard as hell.

Continuing with my peeling, I often looked over at her to make sure she chopped the onions the right way. I didn't want her to hurt herself. That was my job.

For the next several minutes, we cut up all the vegetables and chicken we would need. I always preferred to buy whole chicken filets instead of the pre-cut ones to decide how big we wanted them ourselves. Then, I showed her how to make my favorite stir-fry sauce.

As I spoke, my voice grew to a rough whisper, not used to talking as much as I was doing now. She made me explain everything in as much detail as possible, and I had a suspicion she was doing it on purpose.

While we worked together, I was taken aback by how peaceful I felt. I hadn't thought I would feel so relaxed when someone else was in the kitchen with me. But Emma had a way of surprising me.

"Do we fry the chicken together with the vegetables or...?" she asked when we were done with everything else.

"Separate at first. We want to know the meat is cooked all the way through before we add it in the wok pan. We'll also want to wait a little while before frying the chicken. If it's done long before the vegetables, it'll become dry."

Turning up the temperature for both pans, I explained to her, "If you ever fry anything, remember to use an oil that has a high smoke point, like peanut oil, which we are now using."

Perplexed, she looked at me. "Why is that?"

"The temperature will be high. If you use olive oil or something like that, it will end up burned and taste bitter."

Letting her take charge of cooking the chicken and showing her how much she should season it, I had responsibility for the stir fry. I didn't want her to burn herself.

Emma wasn't bad at cooking like she'd told me she was; she only lacked experience. She took my directions well, and I'd only needed to show her something once, and after, she did it like a pro.

By the time we'd set the table and sat down in our seats, I was in a good mood. I was never in a good mood, so that said a fucking lot. I'd actually enjoyed cooking with her, and the revelation startled me. Maybe we could do this again; I think I'd like that.

Her eyes were closed, and I could hear a faint humming sound coming from her as she took her first bite.

I watched her eat with an intensity that scared most people, but never her. No, she basically glowed from the attention.

"Good?" I grunted.

"Delicious," she practically moaned when she answered.

"The food always tastes better when you cook it yourself," I agreed and took a bite myself. The taste exploded in my mouth. I'd made this stir fry a million times, but this might be the best one yet, and I had a feeling there was only one person to thank for that.