“Sheet-pan chicken, plus sliders,” I said, pulling the pan from the oven and setting it on a trivet. “Roasted potatoes, some veggies. I figured if we’re testing cocoa and cookies, you might want something that isn’t ninety percent sugar.”
“Good call. Not gonna lie. I could eat the whole cutting board.”
She sat on one of the stools but didn’t settle. Jess never simply sat—she perched like a bird ready to launch, her hands wrapped around the insulated mug she’d carried in from the car—her emotional support coffee—her legs tucked neatly underthe edge of the counter, her whole posture hovering between polite composure and nervous energy.
Not one to keep a lady waiting, I assembled our plates. I slid one in front of her, watching for her reaction more closely than I wanted to admit. She took the first bite like she was expecting disappointment.
Instead, she closed her eyes.
The sound she made was quiet—barely more than a breath—but it curled through me like a hand around my nape. Every coherent thought I had dissolved.
She opened her eyes slowly. “That is… Powell, that’s absurdly good. Why do you know how to cook like this?”
“Firefighters cook,” I said, aware of the heat creeping up my neck.
“Not like this.”
I shrugged, trying to pretend I wasn’t ten seconds from preening. “Glad you like it.”
But she held my gaze for a beat too long—curious, uncertain, something unguarded flickering there—and it made my pulse thrum harder in my ears. She looked away first, stabbing at a potato like it had insulted her mama.
For a few minutes, the only sounds were forks on plates and the faint hum of the fridge. It wasn’t awkward, though. Just… full. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t expected with her. I’d imagined sharp edges and tense silence. Instead, she relaxed by degrees with every bite.
“This herb thing—” She pointed her fork at the pan. “—is that rosemary?”
“And thyme. Garlic. Lemon zest.”
She chewed thoughtfully and gave a little nod, like she’d decided to allow it. “Okay, Donkey, I’ll give it to you. You are unreasonably competent in the kitchen.”
“Should I get that on a plaque?” I asked. “Hang it over the stove?”
“You could embroider it on the hand towel you definitely ironed.”
I choked. “I did not?—”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “You totally did.”
“I did not iron a towel,” I lied. “It came that way.”
“Uh-huh.”
We slid into easy banter, and it felt… good. I hadn’t realized how much I missed this version of her, the one I’d only really gotten brief glimpses of in high school before everything had gone sideways. The Jess who joked, who teased, who wasn’t all defensive spikes and distance.
She reached for the salt at the same time I did. Our fingertips brushed—warm, electric—and we both stilled for half a beat longer than the moment warranted.
She cleared her throat, taking the shaker and sprinkling salt with a laser focus that said she absolutely felt it too and was choosing to ignore it. I let her.
We finished the food at a reasonable human pace, not the shove-it-down-between-calls speed I was used to at the station. She cleaned her plate, sat back, and pressed a hand to her stomach with a small groan.
“If we do cookies now, they’re going to taste like chicken,” she said.
“Could start a trend,” I said. “Savory gingerbread.”
“Don’t say that where any of the food bloggers can hear you. They’ll do it.”
I stood, collected our plates, and moved to the sink. She hopped off the stool almost immediately.
“I can help.” She was already reaching for the cutting board.
