“Oh my god, that was so good.” Decl

“Oh my god, that was so good.” Declan’s eyes glaze over in a blissful, almost drunken expression as he rubs his stomach, looking damn near comatose after finishing a plate of my fettuccine alfredo. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. 
I’m so glad he likes my cooking. It’s literally the only thing I have to contribute to this very odd, very one-sided . . . partnership? Friendship? I don’t even know what we are.
“Told you making it from scratch is way better.” I stand and grab our empty plates, but Declan takes them from me. 
“I got it.”
My brows arch. “You’re going to do the dishes?”
Perfect teeth and dimples flash as he says, “If by ‘do the dishes’ you mean stick these in the dishwasher, then yes.” He nods to the couch peeking out of the living room. “Go. Sit. Relax.”
You don’t have to tell me twice. . .
Picking up the remote from the coffee table, I sink into the black leather and turn on the behemoth flat screen. A minute later, Declan walks in and sits next to me. I offer him the remote, but he just shakes his head and says, “Whatever you want to watch is fine.”
My gaze flits back to the channel guide on the screen, but I feel him watching me. “What?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking that it’s probably not your lifelong dream to work in a gym, so . . . what do you want to do with your life?”
“That’s a pretty deep question.”
He shrugs, his lips curving up. “I’m a pretty deep guy.”
I roll my eyes—something I find myself doing a lot around him. “I don’t know. I thought I’d have time to figure it out my freshman year, but college didn’t quite pan out.”
His brows knit together as he leans forward. “Why not?”
My eyes wander back to the TV. I don’t like talking about this. It reminds me how close I came to getting out of this stupid, poverty-stricken rut I seem to be doomed to spend my entire life in. “What’s with all the questions?”
“Just curious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Something in the way he says it makes me feel bad. Like I’ve just kicked his puppy, or something. I sigh and say, “The scholarships I had lined up to pay for college kind of fell through when I dropped out. I might be able to qualify for financial aid now, but it doesn’t really matter since I don’t have the money to cover what it won’t.” I see him in my peripheral vision, but I can’t make out his expression. I’m willing to bet I won’t like it, though. “I swear to God, if I look over and see you feeling sorry for me, I’m gonna punch you.”
He chuckles. “All right. I’ll keep my feelings to myself, I promise.”
“Good.”
“Have you considered being a chef? You’re a genius in the kitchen.”
“Thank you. And no, not seriously.”
“How’d you get to be so good?”
My breath leaves me on a long exhale and I shrug as well as I can against the back of the couch. “Partly out of necessity and partly out of desire to please my foster parents.” 
At his furrowed brows, I say, “Foster parents are the same as regular parents—some are great, some are okay, and some have no business raising kids. When I was younger, I got stuck with this upper middle class couple. They seemed perfect on paper—good jobs, nice house, nice cars—but they were neglectful and abusive. They had two other foster kids, and the three of us were their little maids. We were in charge of cleaning their house, doing their laundry, cooking their food, and if we messed up or fell behind schedule, they hit us. They were smart about it, too. Knew to hit us where it wouldn’t show.
“They liked my cooking, so I tried harder, branched out.” I stare into space, remembering things I spent so long trying to forget. Like the stinging whip of his belt and the taste of the sock she’d shove into my mouth to muffle my screams. “It really messed with my head, you know? Trying to please people I distrusted and loathed so much. In my young, naïve mind, I kept thinking, ‘If I could just get them to like me, then maybe they’ll be nicer.’”
Declan leans forward, his jawline tense as he rests his elbows on his knees. “I want to know more about you, but the more I learn, the more it pisses me off.”
I nudge his shoulder with mine. “So quit asking.”
He looks positively enraged as he stares at the floor, shaking his head minutely. “It ain’t fuckin’ right, Savannah. Did you tell anyone? A social worker, or. . .?”
“The only time I saw my social worker was when I’d get moved to a new home, and she wasn’t exactly helpful. She never talked about the why’s and how’s of things. Every time I got moved, it was scary and confusing, and I quickly learned to act out if I didn’t like a house, because the foster parents wouldn’t put up with that shit. It was kind of like my ‘get out of jail free’ card, only instead of getting free, I’d get moved to another jail.” I run my hands along my faded shorts, my voice coming out soft. “That’s how I eventually got out of there.”
His eyes narrow as he studies me, like he’s truly seeing me for the first time. No one’s ever seen this side of me before. It’s scary and unnerving, and it makes me want clam up and not share anything else with him.
Amazement laces his tone as he asks, “How are you not just . . . broken?”
A sad smile parts my lips as I shrug. “Who says I’m not?”
His eyes search mine, stripping me raw until I feel more exposed than I’ve ever been before. “You’re not,” he says simply. “You’re too feisty. If you were broken, you wouldn’t have any fight left in you.”
And then he has to go and say something like that, something that makes me want to give him more of these little glimpses past my wall. I know I’m setting a dangerous precedent, but I can’t seem to stop.
“So what happened to the other two kids?”
I shrug. “Hell if I know.” I didn’t have a way or desire to keep in touch.
Declan’s eyes grow wide as they land on me, like he’s coming to some horrifying realization. “Please tell me you understand that you don’t have to cook for me. You know that, right? You don’t have to do anything for me in order to stay here.”
He’s made no secret that he’s concerned for my well-being, and yet every time he shows it, I’m stupefied. I never would’ve guessed that under all that muscle and ink is such a big heart.
I’m terrified he could actually show me how to use mine.
My eyes drop back to my lap. “I know. But I want to. It’s my way of giving back.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t have negative feelings attached to it?”
“Declan, you’re nothing like them. The fact that you’re even worried about it proves how much different you are. I promise you, it’s no big deal.”
He frowns and rubs his jaw. “I don’t know . . . I still feel shitty about it.”
“And I’m gonna feel shitty if you don’t eat my food.” A soft chuckle bubbles out of me as I stare at him. He’s being ridiculous. “Declan, I still need to eat, so I’m still gonna cook, and it’ll be silly for you to eat something else when I’ve gone to the trouble of making a whole meal. Do you want to hurt my feelings?”
He sighs dramatically and rests his head on the back of the couch. “Fine. Twist my arm, why don’t you?”
My eyes automatically stray to the patterns and colors embedded into his skin. “I wouldn’t do that to such a nice arm.”
“You think it’s nice?”
I hear the grin in his voice, but I’m lost in the mural along his forearm. My eyes roam over the roses, the pocket watch, to the skull and shading that connects everything. It’s mostly done in shades of black and gray, but the roses are a muted red and the watch is a dull gold so as not to overpower or detract from the whole image. There’s a scrolling banner between the watch and skull that says Time Waits for No One. 
The mural blends into the very lifelike black and gray angels on his biceps, their wings spreading up into the blue-tipped heavens peeking out from under his t-shirt. It’s almost understated and surprisingly tasteful for something that takes up every visible inch of skin. 
“I think it’s beautiful,” I say, my fingers reaching up to graze the angels’ wings. His skin, stretched taut over so much muscle, is feverishly warm and sends a tingle straight through me. 
My gaze lifts, meeting his hooded eyes, right as the Ramones’ “Beat on the Brat” blares from his pocket. It startles me so much that I yank my hand away from him. 
My heart’s thrumming somewhere deep in the valley of my torso as a sour, almost guilt-like feeling floods me. I can’t explain it, but it almost feels like we were caught doing something wrong. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline coursing through me.
Declan groans and rolls his eyes as he shifts and pulls out his phone. Pressing a button on the side, he turns off the ringing and leans forward to set it on the coffee table.
It’s late. Pair that with his reaction, and I’m thinking the caller is some girl. An ex? Or maybe something more current?
I try to sound indifferent as I ask, “You’re not gonna answer that?”
“Nope.” His answer’s succinct as he suddenly shows interest in the long-forgotten TV show.
“Why not? Don’t want your girlfriend to know you’re shacking up with me?” I grin and playfully nudge his shoulder.
He glances over. “You know I don’t do girlfriends. Jamie’s just . . . filler.”
“Ugh, I hate that name,” I say, grimacing. “There was this girl I went to school with named Jamie who used to pick on me, and well . . . I never really got over it.” 
Actually, “picked on” isn’t the right term. This bitch made my life a living hell for years. Her reign of terror lasted from seventh grade up until I dropped out our senior year. So yeah, the name leaves a sour taste in my mouth and I know it’s completely irrational, but I’m kinda mad at Declan for sleeping with one. 
“You want me to kick her ass?”
I look over at him, seeing his teasing smile. 
“I’d do it myself if I ever saw her again.”

Hasil (Bahasa Indonesia) 1:

"Oh Tuhan, itu begitu baik." Declan's mata glaze berakhir dalam ekspresi bahagia, hampir mabuk saat dia menggosok perut, mencari hampir koma setelah menyelesaikan sepiring alfredo fettuccine saya. Aku harus menggigit bagian dalam pipi saya untuk menahan senyum. Aku senang sekali dia suka saya memasak. Ini adalah benar-benar satu-satunya hal yang saya harus berkontribusi untuk ini sangat aneh, sangat satu-sisi... kemitraan? Persahabatan? Aku bahkan tidak tahu apa yang kami."Bilang membuat dari awal cara yang lebih baik." Aku berdiri dan ambil piring kami kosong, tapi Declan membawa mereka dari saya. "Aku punya itu."Arch alis saya. "Anda akan mencuci piring?"Gigi sempurna dan lesung flash saat ia mengatakan, "jika oleh 'lakukan piring' maksudmu tongkat ini di mesin pencuci piring, kemudian ya." Dia mengangguk untuk sofa mengintip keluar dari ruang tamu. "Pergi. Duduk. Santai."Anda tidak perlu mengatakan dua kali...Memungut remote dari meja kopi, aku tenggelam ke dalam kulit hitam dan menyalakan layar raksasa. Satu menit kemudian, Declan berjalan di dan duduk di sebelah saya. Saya menawarkan remote, tetapi ia hanya getar kepalanya dan berkata, "apa pun yang Anda ingin menonton baik-baik saja."Pandangan depan kembali ke saluran Panduan pada layar, tapi aku merasa dia menonton saya. "Apa?""Tidak ada. Aku hanya berpikir bahwa itu tidak mungkin impian Anda seumur hidup untuk bekerja di gym, jadi... apa yang Anda ingin lakukan dengan hidup Anda? ""Itulah pertanyaan yang cukup mendalam."He shrugs, his lips curving up. “I’m a pretty deep guy.”I roll my eyes—something I find myself doing a lot around him. “I don’t know. I thought I’d have time to figure it out my freshman year, but college didn’t quite pan out.”His brows knit together as he leans forward. “Why not?”My eyes wander back to the TV. I don’t like talking about this. It reminds me how close I came to getting out of this stupid, poverty-stricken rut I seem to be doomed to spend my entire life in. “What’s with all the questions?”“Just curious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”Something in the way he says it makes me feel bad. Like I’ve just kicked his puppy, or something. I sigh and say, “The scholarships I had lined up to pay for college kind of fell through when I dropped out. I might be able to qualify for financial aid now, but it doesn’t really matter since I don’t have the money to cover what it won’t.” I see him in my peripheral vision, but I can’t make out his expression. I’m willing to bet I won’t like it, though. “I swear to God, if I look over and see you feeling sorry for me, I’m gonna punch you.”He chuckles. “All right. I’ll keep my feelings to myself, I promise.”“Good.”“Have you considered being a chef? You’re a genius in the kitchen.”“Thank you. And no, not seriously.”“How’d you get to be so good?”My breath leaves me on a long exhale and I shrug as well as I can against the back of the couch. “Partly out of necessity and partly out of desire to please my foster parents.” At his furrowed brows, I say, “Foster parents are the same as regular parents—some are great, some are okay, and some have no business raising kids. When I was younger, I got stuck with this upper middle class couple. They seemed perfect on paper—good jobs, nice house, nice cars—but they were neglectful and abusive. They had two other foster kids, and the three of us were their little maids. We were in charge of cleaning their house, doing their laundry, cooking their food, and if we messed up or fell behind schedule, they hit us. They were smart about it, too. Knew to hit us where it wouldn’t show.“They liked my cooking, so I tried harder, branched out.” I stare into space, remembering things I spent so long trying to forget. Like the stinging whip of his belt and the taste of the sock she’d shove into my mouth to muffle my screams. “It really messed with my head, you know? Trying to please people I distrusted and loathed so much. In my young, naïve mind, I kept thinking, ‘If I could just get them to like me, then maybe they’ll be nicer.’”Declan leans forward, his jawline tense as he rests his elbows on his knees. “I want to know more about you, but the more I learn, the more it pisses me off.”I nudge his shoulder with mine. “So quit asking.”He looks positively enraged as he stares at the floor, shaking his head minutely. “It ain’t fuckin’ right, Savannah. Did you tell anyone? A social worker, or. . .?”“The only time I saw my social worker was when I’d get moved to a new home, and she wasn’t exactly helpful. She never talked about the why’s and how’s of things. Every time I got moved, it was scary and confusing, and I quickly learned to act out if I didn’t like a house, because the foster parents wouldn’t put up with that shit. It was kind of like my ‘get out of jail free’ card, only instead of getting free, I’d get moved to another jail.” I run my hands along my faded shorts, my voice coming out soft. “That’s how I eventually got out of there.”His eyes narrow as he studies me, like he’s truly seeing me for the first time. No one’s ever seen this side of me before. It’s scary and unnerving, and it makes me want clam up and not share anything else with him.Amazement laces his tone as he asks, “How are you not just . . . broken?”A sad smile parts my lips as I shrug. “Who says I’m not?”His eyes search mine, stripping me raw until I feel more exposed than I’ve ever been before. “You’re not,” he says simply. “You’re too feisty. If you were broken, you wouldn’t have any fight left in you.”And then he has to go and say something like that, something that makes me want to give him more of these little glimpses past my wall. I know I’m setting a dangerous precedent, but I can’t seem to stop.“So what happened to the other two kids?”
I shrug. “Hell if I know.” I didn’t have a way or desire to keep in touch.
Declan’s eyes grow wide as they land on me, like he’s coming to some horrifying realization. “Please tell me you understand that you don’t have to cook for me. You know that, right? You don’t have to do anything for me in order to stay here.”
He’s made no secret that he’s concerned for my well-being, and yet every time he shows it, I’m stupefied. I never would’ve guessed that under all that muscle and ink is such a big heart.
I’m terrified he could actually show me how to use mine.
My eyes drop back to my lap. “I know. But I want to. It’s my way of giving back.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t have negative feelings attached to it?”
“Declan, you’re nothing like them. The fact that you’re even worried about it proves how much different you are. I promise you, it’s no big deal.”
He frowns and rubs his jaw. “I don’t know . . . I still feel shitty about it.”
“And I’m gonna feel shitty if you don’t eat my food.” A soft chuckle bubbles out of me as I stare at him. He’s being ridiculous. “Declan, I still need to eat, so I’m still gonna cook, and it’ll be silly for you to eat something else when I’ve gone to the trouble of making a whole meal. Do you want to hurt my feelings?”
He sighs dramatically and rests his head on the back of the couch. “Fine. Twist my arm, why don’t you?”
My eyes automatically stray to the patterns and colors embedded into his skin. “I wouldn’t do that to such a nice arm.”
“You think it’s nice?”
I hear the grin in his voice, but I’m lost in the mural along his forearm. My eyes roam over the roses, the pocket watch, to the skull and shading that connects everything. It’s mostly done in shades of black and gray, but the roses are a muted red and the watch is a dull gold so as not to overpower or detract from the whole image. There’s a scrolling banner between the watch and skull that says Time Waits for No One. 
The mural blends into the very lifelike black and gray angels on his biceps, their wings spreading up into the blue-tipped heavens peeking out from under his t-shirt. It’s almost understated and surprisingly tasteful for something that takes up every visible inch of skin. 
“I think it’s beautiful,” I say, my fingers reaching up to graze the angels’ wings. His skin, stretched taut over so much muscle, is feverishly warm and sends a tingle straight through me. 
My gaze lifts, meeting his hooded eyes, right as the Ramones’ “Beat on the Brat” blares from his pocket. It startles me so much that I yank my hand away from him. 
My heart’s thrumming somewhere deep in the valley of my torso as a sour, almost guilt-like feeling floods me. I can’t explain it, but it almost feels like we were caught doing something wrong. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline coursing through me.
Declan groans and rolls his eyes as he shifts and pulls out his phone. Pressing a button on the side, he turns off the ringing and leans forward to set it on the coffee table.
It’s late. Pair that with his reaction, and I’m thinking the caller is some girl. An ex? Or maybe something more current?
I try to sound indifferent as I ask, “You’re not gonna answer that?”
“Nope.” His answer’s succinct as he suddenly shows interest in the long-forgotten TV show.
“Why not? Don’t want your girlfriend to know you’re shacking up with me?” I grin and playfully nudge his shoulder.
He glances over. “You know I don’t do girlfriends. Jamie’s just . . . filler.”
“Ugh, I hate that name,” I say, grimacing. “There was this girl I went to school with named Jamie who used to pick on me, and well . . . I never really got over it.” 
Actually, “picked on” isn’t the right term. This bitch made my life a living hell for years. Her reign of terror lasted from seventh grade up until I dropped out our senior year. So yeah, the name leaves a sour taste in my mouth and I know it’s completely irrational, but I’m kinda mad at Declan for sleeping with one. 
“You want me to kick her ass?”
I look over at him, seeing his teasing smile. 
“I’d do it myself if I ever saw her again.”