"Wait," I said, laughing so hard I nearly choked on my beer. "Someone actually resold ketchup packets from the McDonald's down the street?"
"Entrepreneurial spirit," Izzy said solemnly, then broke into a grin. "Stopped after a call with the engine and asked them for ‘as many ketchup packets as you’re legally allowed togive me.’ Thompson made seventeen dollars before Cap shut down the operation. The thing is, we could leave five thousand dollars in cash on the table and nobody would touch it. But a bottle of Heinz? Gone like we had ninjas on the loose."
"I cannot even imagine living like that," I said. "Hospital staff’ll steal your lunch, but they draw the line at actual condiments."
"Different code of ethics," she agreed. "Though honestly, after eating this, I understand the ketchup wars better. If you could cook like this at the station, people would probably chain you to the stove."
The compliment made me ridiculously happy. Watching her enjoy the food I'd made, seeing her relax into my space, felt better than any performance review or patient commendation I'd ever received.
When we finished the main course, I stood to clear the plates, suddenly nervous about dessert. I'd been second-guessing the tres leches choice all day, but it was too late to change course now.
"There's dessert," I said, carrying the plates to the kitchen. "If you want."
"You made dessert too?" Izzy called from the table. "Jimmy, you're going to spoil me."
I pulled the ramekins from the refrigerator, hands slightly shaking as I arranged them on a small tray with spoons. "It's tres leches," I said, setting the tray on the table proudly.
Izzy went very still. Her eyes moved from the perfect, cream-soaked cakes to my face, one eyebrow slowly rising.
"Tres leches," she repeated, her voice carefully neutral.
“Yeah!” I exclaimed, excitedly, “I …”
And then I saw her face.
Oh. Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit. "I — " I started, then stopped, my face burning. "It's not — I mean, I didn't make it because you're — " The words tangled up in my mouth like fishing line. "I just, I love tres leches, and I thought — "
Izzystood up from her chair, cutting off my increasingly incoherent rambling. For a terrifying moment, I thought she was going to leave. Instead, she stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, something clean and faintly floral.
"Jimmy," she said quietly, her eyes searching mine. "Did you make tres leches because I'm Latina?"
"No!" The word came out too loud, too desperate. "I mean, maybe unconsciously? I don't know, I just — " I ran my hands through my hair, completely flustered. "I make tres leches all the time. It's my go-to dessert when I really want to — " I stopped, realizing what I was about to say.
"When you really want to what?" she asked, stepping even closer.
"When I really want to impress someone," I admitted quietly. "And I really, really wanted to impress you."
For a moment that felt like eternity, she just looked at me. I could see her processing, weighing my words against my obvious panic, my flustered honesty against whatever assumptions she might have had.
Then, without warning, she reached up, cupped my face in her calloused hands, and kissed me.
It was soft at first, tentative, like she was testing the waters. But when I kissed her back, something shifted. Her hands slid into my hair, and I found myself pressing closer, my arms coming up to circle her waist. She tasted like wine and cilantro and something indefinably her, and I thought dimly that this was so much better than any fantasy I'd been trying not to have.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard. Izzy's cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly swollen, and she was looking at me like she was seeing something new.
"That was — " I started.
"Good," she finished, her voice husky. "That was really good."
We ate the tres leches standing in my kitchen, sharing bites from the same spoon and stealing kisses between tastes. The cake was perfect — rich and sweet and soaked through with cream — but I barely tasted it. I was too distracted by the way Izzy hummed appreciatively with each bite, by the way she kept looking at me like I'd just performed some kind of magic trick.
When it was time for her to leave, we lingered by my door like teenagers reluctant to end a first date. She had her jacket on, her keys in her hand, but neither of us seemed ready to say goodbye.
"This was amazing," she said finally. "The food, the company, all of it. Thank you."
"Thank you for coming," I said. "For trusting me with your last day off."
She smiled, soft and genuine, and I felt my heart do something acrobatic in my chest.
