"Do you know how to spell soup?"
"I'm choosing not to answer that question."
I watched them work together; Cole chopping vegetables with careful, clearly unpracticed strokes, Sarah being his efficient assistant as they both moved around each other with easy, familiar rhythm.
"Cole, this is genuinely too much," I said softly.
He stopped, a package of chicken in his hand, and turned to look at me directly. "It's not nearly enough, actually. You faced your deepest fear for us. You got hurt because of it. The absolute least I can do is make sure you eat properly while you heal."
"This one is chicken soup," Sarah said, labeling another container with careful letters. "And this one is... Uncle C, what is this one?"
"Vegetable something. The recipe had a French name I couldn't pronounce correctly."
"I'll write 'Veggie Stuff'. That's easy."
"That works perfectly."
For nearly an hour, my small kitchen hummed with quiet domestic industry. Cole showed Sarah how to season food with just salt and pepper. She showed him her personal technique for arranging fruit in aesthetically pleasing patterns.
"Flat or stacked?" Sarah asked, holding up two containers.
"Flat definitely saves more refrigerator space."
"Stacked is way more fun."
"How is stacking containers more fun?" Cole asked.
"It just is. You wouldn't understand." I replied.
Watching them work together, the man who constantly doubted himself in his capacity to care, and this resilient child thriving under his devoted if sometimes clumsy love, the sight made something fundamental shift within me.
I was falling for them.
Both of them, completely.
For Sarah's resilient, hopeful heart and her unfiltered observations about the world. For Cole's gruff, stubborn determination to become better than he believed he could ever be. They weren't just kind people I was helping with tutoring and advice. They were weaving themselves into the fabric of my days, my thoughts, my quiet, lonely moments.
They were becoming necessary.
The terror followed that realization immediately, ice-cold and achingly familiar. Necessary things could be lost. I knew that truth better than anyone alive. Loving them meant opening myself to potential devastation.
At the door, Sarah hugged my waist carefully, clearly mindful of my crutches and injured ankle. "Feel better really soon, Ms. Reed! Uncle C said we will stop by tomorrow!"
"I'll be right here," I promised, hugging her small, warm body back tightly.
Cole lingered awkwardly after Sarah skipped out happily to the truck. He stood in my doorway, the morning sun framing his tall, broad form, flour still dusting his flannel sleeve from earlier.
"Was this okay?" His voice was low, genuinely uncertain. "I didn't overstep or anything?"
This man, who feared nothing in the entire wilderness, was worried he'd been too much in my kitchen. The contrast made my chest ache with tenderness.
"It was perfect," I said honestly, emotion thick in my voice. "Thank you, Cole."
He searched my face intently for a long moment, then nodded once slowly and walked to his truck.
After they finally left, my cabin was warm and smelled wonderfully of pancakes and simmering soup. My refrigerator held neatly labeled containers full of meals made with care. The three small wildflowers nodded gently on my table in their tiny vase.
I sank carefully onto my couch, surrounded completely by evidence of their thoughtfulness.
