~ 4 months later ~

The kitchen was a glorified mess. Dishes sitting on the sink, crumbs and onion rings all over the tiled floor as well as an alarming amount of tomato fruits splayed haphazardly across every layer of the ivory counter. There was a film of water and grease around the stove as Shanya attempted to fry the tomato paste, spoon in hand. It bubbled and shot up, causing her to leap back.

"You sure you don't want my help?" Paris chimed from the other side of the counter as he watched her destroy his kitchen. Not that he minded. Having Shanya move around so freely in his kitchen had him feeling breathless and sent a jolting ache to his groin. Usually, she made toast and avocado for breakfast, and she was surprisingly good at it. But today, she had decided to try something different.

"Yes, just like I didn't want it the last six times you offered."

He liked the determination in her voice and without looking, knew there was a distinct set to her lovely jaws. She'd finally taken up cooking lessons (and completely abandoned driving) not because of his constant teasing but because she'd decided it was an essential skill she needed to learn for herself.

Unfortunately, she really should just stick to nursing. But he'd never say so, for entirely selfish reasons.

She turned to look at him, her face streaked with sweat, brought alive with a fine hue of crimson. "You've already helped me with the onions. Now, go away."

"Judging by the state of this kitchen, it is crystal clear I shouldn't leave you unsupervised."

She squinted her eyes at him, the spoon in her hand bobbing up and down. The green apron she wore was short and cute, revealing the sublime blue, polka dot dress behind it. It was the color of clear blue skies and complimented her hazelnut features immensely.

"You look lovely in that dress."

She snorted. "You're so full of shit."

There was a lightness in her voice and movement when she turned her back to the stove and attacked the pot. He smiled slowly, content to stand back and watch mostly because he knew if he dared interfered, she'd whack his hands with that wooden spoon.

The past months had been absolute bliss. If they weren't teasing each other for one fault or the other, they were ogling each other unabashedly, two seconds away from ripping each other's clothes off and getting seriously freaky. After nearly losing her, Paris couldn't imagine going through that pain again, couldn't imagine living a life without her.

She had recovered quickly enough from the poison and he'd been hardwired to never let her out of his sight again. Because she was who she was, she had agreed to stay over at his house for the weekends, never a day more. "Three days,' she'd said, "That should be enough time for Lily and Travis to go at it nonstop before I return."

It was not enough. Not nearly enough.

For him, that is. Not for Travis and Lily and their wildfire romance—as intriguing as it was.

As for his parents, he'd received a call from his mother inviting them over for dinner this night—including Shanya's family. He was yet to tell Shanya, but he looked forward to it. She tended to get overly excited to spend time with his dad, especially. The two had grown awfully close. Purity had even said so, adding 'Seems as though daddy has a new favorite daughter,' To which, he laughed. Scot, on the other hand, had asked her if she were jealous, and she'd asked him what he'd planned to do about it if she were. Scot had said nothing else after that.

There was definitely something going on between those two.

Quieting his mind, he returned his focus to his girlfriend who was now tasting the pasta she'd made.

She made a face and groaned. Paris walked over to her and took the wooden spoon she offered, coated with pasta. With one lick, he wanted to spit out the terrible concoction but schooled his expression to remain neutral.

"It's missing something, isn't it?"

No, it needed to be thrown out. But Paris only nodded gravely, masking his innermost thoughts as he handed the wooden spoon back to her.

She studied the pot for a minute then turned around and snatched the instruction manual from the counter, frowning. "Maybe I need to add more salt."

She did not, but he would not say so. Turning around, he snatched the table salt container from the top cupboard and handed it to her. She took it and with the utmost concentration, sprinkled a fair amount into the cooking pot before stirring.

After a while, she turned around and sighed. Her kinky hair was held tightly with a white bandana and he spotted red sauce on the bridge of her nose. Unable to resist, Paris pinched her nose and she beat away at his hand, but he leaped back quickly so it looked like she was fanning air.

Even quicker, she snatched the white towel resting on her shoulder and waved it at him. Paris laughed as he caught it, and yanked. She lost her grip on it and he swung it over his head mockingly. She became on edge and gave him a warning look when she realized what he intended to do.

"Don't you dare," she warned, but she might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Paris leapt forward and chased after her, cloth in hand. She squealed and darted around the kitchen counter, her movements were quick and solitary.

Soon, they were running around in the kitchen, Shanya laughing at him in delight as Paris tried to keep up. But there were only so many runs you could do in a kitchen.

He pretended to bend a corner and when she staggered, he leaped forward and caught her, tickling her as she wriggled and sank to the floor beneath them, breathless from the pursuit. Her hair had become wilder than it was and the hem of her skirts had come up to her thighs as she continued to writhe under his touch.

"Stop! Please!" she begged, her words failing her as fits of unrelentless laughter tripled by the second. This—he could do this all day. Could get used to it and never want it to stop.

He released her though, not because he wanted to, but because something was burning. Quickly, he helped her up to her feet, her movements unsteady as they both rushed to the abandoned stove and sure enough, the pasta had turned a nasty brown.

"It's this dress," Shanya announced, gesturing to the blue thin-strapped polka dot dress behind her apron.

Paris raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Ever had an unlucky dress? Well, this dress that you like so much, good things haven't happened to me in this dress. But I looked at it today and said, "I'm gonna give you another chance." Clearly, I should've burnt it instead."

Paris snickered, then laughed out loud, his hands cradling his chest as he bent over, barely able to contain his laughter. When he came back up for air, the murderous look on Shanya's face and the fierce determination in the set of her shoulders sent him spiraling again.

With one quick movement, she threw a tomato at him and he dodged it. The red blur flew over his head and landed with a splash on the white-tiled floor.

"I'm sorry, " he stammered in between laughs, his voice hoarse and tremulous, "It's just— well, denial becomes you."

She threw another at him, this time it hit him right on the torso.

Paris grimaced. "Sometimes, I forget you've got a mean right hook."

She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a whimsical smile. "Not so mean apparently. I was aiming for unconsciousness."

Paris let out a shrill laugh and rubbed his aching torso. Feigning a terse look, he gestured to all around him. "You're cleaning all this mess."

Luckily, he was saved from whatever tongue-lashing snide remark that was about to fly out of her pretty mouth when the doorbell rang. He exited the kitchen in a few quick strides and walked through the corridor leading towards the door. The ache in his chest from the impact of the tomato had dulled, but he kept massaging it just in case. It was his curse for falling in love with a wild woman.

With his free hand, he turned the doorknob.

It was Mark, the delivery guy. Short and blond, barely twenty.

"Hello, boss, here's your order,"
he said with a smile, handing him the large pizza.

"Hello, thanks," Paris whispered, taking the pizza under his palm and handing him the money. He added an extra tip just because. The young boy's smile broadened as he tipped his head and disappeared.

Paris walked cautiously back into the kitchen, the pizza behind his back. Shanya had her back to him so he set the pizza quietly on the counter and covered it with the white towel she had tried to whack him with. He stood silently, watching her movements. She had dumped the pot and everything in it on the sink, set two peeled avocados on the clean layer of the kitchen counter, and was now retrieving two toasted bread she had made earlier before she'd gotten it into her head to make Spaghetti and pasta.

Shanya spread the avocado over the toast and sprinkled tomato on top as if it were cake decorations. There was a joy in how she did it as if for a moment she was happily absorbed by a feeling of love that played her subtle smile and fiery gaze.

"You're staring, Grey-eyes," she said, turning around as she brought the toast over, his and hers, the breakfast that had become the rhythm of their lives together. He could see every day of his future and wanted it—no, craved it. He wanted to stay and be a part of it more than anything he's ever wanted—for this relationship to be something he sailed within until he was old and haggard.

"How could I not?" he murmured as she set his toast before him, a questioning look on her face. He loved the fading sunrise behind her eyes, the rays that danced through her hair. He loved all of her, not just the parts that made sense, not just the parts she had shown him. He loved the parts that he did not yet understand, the parts he only noticed when he stole glances at her in the silence. "How could I not."

She shook her head at him. "How'd you leap from laughing at me and my terrible cooking to having eye sex with me, Pervert?"

"Oh, is that what we're calling sexy, charismatic boyfriends now?" He retorted as he took his toast and bit into it, savoring the delicious, moldy, and crunchy taste.

She bit into hers with less enthusiasm, narrowing her eyes. "Who was that at the door?"

O-oh. He'd completely forgotten about that little hiccup.

He stopped chewing midway, his traitorous eyes making a quick glance towards the concealed pizza. To anybody else, that movement would have gone unnoticed. But not Shanya. Her eyes were like those of a hawk.

With a frown, his inquisitive girlfriend removed the white towel, uncovering the pizza. Paris watched with bated breath, the toast still in his mouth as Shanya looked at the pizza, then back at him, her expression nothing short of wondrous.

"I cannot believe you," she choked up, her hands flying to her waist, "Did you order pizza while I was cooking? You believed I wouldn't make a great pasta?"

He was dead. Buried. Paris downed the rest of the toast in his mouth, not bothering to finish chewing it as he lifted his hands up in defense. "Noo, no, no, no, nothing like that. I trust your cooking. I just - uh, you know, this is for later in the day."

She stared at him with the same smitten expression and for a moment, he thought she would throw something at him, braced himself for it in fact. But then she dissolved into a puddle of laughter and he could see her stomach shaking as she fought a new gale of giggles, the deep brown flecks of her eyes settling into hysterics. His shoulders relaxed a little and he joined her, laughing, shaking his head as he did so. She was so beautiful. And not just in a physical way. The warmth, pouring out of her heart. Even though she tried hard to hide it. He didn't know what he loved most. Her strong, resilient nature, or her gracious, goofy charisma.

"You really are so full of shit, Paris Boden."

Her beautiful full lips pouted up at him and he felt a fire ignite slow and deep within him—what he had come to realize were signs of his increasing love for her. "But I'm your shit."

She made a disgusted face at him, but he took a step towards her, putting them in a perfect kissing distance. His hands went to her neck, lifting the apron strap over her head. Then he slid his hands up her back and untied the green apron strands. It fell in a flourish around her ankles and she kicked it aside, looking up at him mischievously. But when he moved to cradle her face, she stepped away from his embrace.

"No kiss for you, Mister. You've been a bad boy."

He scoffed softly. 'Well then, I will miss your lips and everything attached to it."

She sent him a coy glance, tilting her head a little to the left as she appraised him with her gaze. Her eyes were full of love and admiration for him, but there was something else lurking behind them, something he recognized as caution. He knew she still had doubts about his feelings towards Heather and what he planned to do when or if she ever woke up from her coma. He didn't blame her for it. He had loved Heather for two years. That was a lot to come to terms with. But his love for Shanya, it was special—rare. He couldn't quite explain it. It was wild and unrelenting and something he had never felt before. And he chose it wholeheartedly. He chose her, always. He wished he could tell her that she had nothing to worry about, but he knew words weren't going to cut it. It was something she had to see for herself.

"Come here," she whispered.

He came to her in two slow strides and she ran her hands along his features, her index finger playing gently at his lips, running along every pink pattern. The wildfire torpedoed between them as he pressed his lips against hers, humbled at how instantly she responded to his touch, how wholly she gave herself to him, how soft and warm her lips felt against his. Every time Shanya touched him like this, the fire was enough to burn brighter than any he'd ever known. With every passing day, it grew stronger yet and he wondered what would happen the day he sheathed his fingers into her wet opening, exploring the most sensitive parts of her like he'd done that night on his boat. The thought alone consumed his mind, jolting his body with electricity as the kiss deepened, each stroke a confession of their unrelenting love for each other. He wanted to taste all of her, feel the movement of her body, become one right here on the kitchen counter.

But he knew it still wasn't time, so they would wait until it was, caring and loving one another as their permanent inferno grew, igniting their smiles and laughter.

— the end —

a/n: we've done it! we've finally finished Scandal and i'm short of words. i'll write a better author's note when my words aren't failing me🙈

in the meantime, thank you. thank you so much for making it up to this point. ya'll will always have a special place in my heart for making this book a part of you.

if you want to read more books by me, check out tales from a jaded writer here on wattpad on this account. if you loved scandal, you're sure to love the eight short stories in TFAJW.

best wishes, readers. i'll create a bonus chapter where i'll fancast the characters in scandal and post their aesthetics. bye for now:-)

p.s: my friends and sisters have been persuading me to write a story about chicago. pretty tempting as i'm not done with him yet. but we'll see.

love, this grateful author.