Miss McKinnon and Mr. Brighthall Must Be Close
“Liar!” snarled Deirdre, scowling. She could not believe herself. Falling for another one of Brendan’s
lies again!?
She turned away from him and ignored him.
Brendan locked his fingers into the spaces between hers and pressed his chest against her back.
“Don’t be mad.” He breathed in her ears, his warm breath ticklish.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you? I should make you some pasta.”
“You?” Deirdre scoffed.
With injuries like that, he could set the whole kitchen on fire from something as innocuous as making
pasta. Td rather do it myself. Leave me be.”
Brendan’s eyes trembled. A smile shadowed his lips. “Are you telling me you’re going to make a portion
for me?” “How did you even come to that? I’m making pasta for myself. I ask you to leave because
you’re getting in my way!”
She shoved him aside and took some leafy vegetables from a clean, clear bag. Deirdre had spent quite
some time in the kitchen shortly after she was married, so she knew its layouts and where everything
was by rote. Her sight had also recovered enough to make out vague shapes of everything, so making
pasta was hardly difficult.
She was so hungry she cooked about half a pot. She filled a bowl for herself and left the rest on the
stove. Seeing that, Brendan felt joy creeping into his chest and asked,
“Did you make it for the two of US?” “No, I made it for one of US, me. I was simply worried that I’d need
seconds.”
The thought of cooking some for him simply never crossed her mind. Her appetite had grown a lot
lately. Sometimes, she found herself craving seconds.
Brendan sat next to her and watched her eat, occasionally brushing strands of her hair away from her
face. There was nothing but intoxicated adoration in his eyes.
“Wow, our kid sure has an appetite.”
Deirdre ignored him. When she was finally full, there was still some left, which quickly became
Brendan’s. He managed to finish it all the way to the bottom of the pot, wolfing it down quickly without
displaying his usual grace and patience. One might even wonder if he had been starving for days.
Only Brendan knew why he acted this way. It had been so long since he tasted Deirdre’s cooking.
The doctor arrived on time to change his bandages. He was surprised to see Brendan eat without his
usual elegance, but seeing the pasta upset him more.
“Didn’t I tell you, Mr. Brighthall? No spices while you’re recovering. That means no garlic, no onions, no
ginger, and definitely no chilies’”
Deirdre had been craving food with stronger flavors lately, so she had added various spices.
However, Brendan did not mind it at all. He took a bite and muttered, “Just this once.”
“But it will hamper your recovery-’’
Brendan shot him a look, and the doctor faltered.
Naturally, Deirdre had heard it all already. It did not occur to her that Brendan was going against a
physician’s order because she was the one who made it. Instead, she thought he was just too hungry
to care and so elected to stick to sitting on the couch and doing nothing.
It was time to redress his wounds. Brendan sat next to her during the process. The stench of his blood
made Deirdre’s stomach churn. She was about to leave when Brendan locked his fingers with hers
tightly,
The doctor noticed that and remarked, “The two of you sure are close.”
Deirdre pretended not to hear him while Brendan shot an appreciative glance at the doctor.
The process was rather agonizing to him. He began to grab Deirdre’s hand so tightly his palm was
sweating.
Brendan rested his head on her shoulder when the doctor left and mumbled, “It hurts a lot, Deirdre.”
She finally had enough. She retracted her hand away and snapped, “Are you done putting on a show?
Tell the doctor if it hurts’ I can’t help you even if you keep complaining!”
“I’m not acting… It does… hurt a lot.”
Deirdre froze. His breaths were labored and heavy. The instability in his voice when he spoke implied
that he was trying to endure great pain.
She remembered Tobey’s rescue as the reason he had been attacked and felt a little coerced into
being a little warmer. Frowning, she said, “It’s the medicine, isn’t it? Why didn’t you say anything when
the doctor was dressing your wounds? I can’t help you, you know.”
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