I’m used to skipping lunch all the time.
Work comes first.
Always has.
But since Willow started here? I’ve been in this room more in the last week than the month before that.
And now?
I’d come back just for this.
Kelly’s a decent cook when she has time, but that’s not her job. Bulk soups. Cold cuts. Easy fuel for men who just want coffee and something to keep them upright until quitting time.
This?
This is something else entirely.
The first crew will be here any minute, but I need a moment.
I need to tell her what this means—to them, to me—before the noise and bodies take over.
I step inside and find her behind the long table, moving carefully, methodically.
There’s an enormous bowl of chicken salad at the center, surrounded by sliced tomatoes, lettuce, onions, and sub dressing.
And—fuck me—fresh rolls.
Still warm.
The crock pot is filled with something thick and creamy, steam rising, the faint scent of lemon curling through the air.
And—sniff—is that dessert?
“Oh—hi,” she says, finally noticing me.
Her voice pulls me back into my body.
“Did you make all this?” I ask.
“Oh. Um. Yeah?”
“Baby,” I say, smiling before I can stop myself, “that wasn’t a hard question. But why?”
She blushes—soft and pink—and my chest tightens in a way that’s starting to feel dangerous.
“Well,” she says, rushing a little, “those frozen soups have so much sodium. They can’t be good for anyone.”
“And the chicken salad?” I ask. “And dessert?” I pick up a roll, still warm in my hand. “And these?”
“They’re par-baked,” she says. “You just finish them in the oven.”
I don’t know what the hell par-baked means, but I do know this—this is care.
This is effort.
This is her giving something real.
“This is too much,” I say quietly.
