"Monica brought sandwiches." Crap. I forgot about the sandwich. I’d intended to eat it. Well, my answer isn’t a lie. She did.
"Did you eat them?"
“It’s cold out here, are you going to let me in?” He raises one eyebrow like he knows I’m avoiding his question but doesn’t push. Instead, he moves to the side, and I step into his space, taking it in. Everything is clean, organized, but not cold. There are books on the shelves, photos on the walls, a guitar in the corner that surprises me.
"You play?" I ask.
"Used to. Haven't picked it up in years."
"You should. I’d love to hear you sometime."
"Maybe." He closes the door, turns to face me properly. "Come here."
I do, moving into his arms. He holds me tight, face buried in my hair, and I feel the tension drain from his shoulders.
"Long day?" I murmur.
"Better now." He pulls back, cups my face. "I missed you."
"It's been two hours since you’ve seen me, silly."
"Still, missed you." He kisses me, slow and thorough. When he pulls back, his eyes are warm. "Dinner's almost ready. Pour yourself wine if you want. Or there's cocoa."
"You made cocoa?"
"I made cocoa."
My chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to love. "You're perfect."
"I'm not. But, I'm trying to be perfect for you." He heads toward the kitchen. "Make yourself at home."
I wander through his space while he cooks. The living room has a massive stone fireplace, comfortable furniture, a view of the mountains through floor-to-ceiling windows. The photos on the walls are mostly family. I pick up a framed photo and examine it. A younger Justin, about my age now. I think he’s more handsome now than in his early twenties. I put it down and glance at the others. Justin with his siblings, with his grandfather at the park, and a large group of his family at a wedding.
"That's Emma's wedding," Justin calls from the kitchen. "Three years ago."
"She looks happy."
"She is happily married for more than fifteen years."
I move to the kitchen doorway, watch him work. He's making pasta, the scent of garlic and herbs filling the air.
“Need help?” I volunteer.
“No, I’m almost done. Just have to pull the garlic bread out of the oven.”
"You really do enjoy cooking for me, don’t you?" I observe.
"I’m good at cooking,” he shrugs. “I took several classes a few years back.”
"It's more than being good at it. You like it."
He glances over. "It’s one way I can take care of you, and I like taking care of you."
"Why?"
"Because you light up when I do, you genuinely appreciate it. Because you're so used to being the one who gives that you forget to receive." He sets down his spoon, moves toward me. "Because making you happy makes me happy."
I reach up, touch his face. "What did I do to deserve you?"
