Rei:Something you feel confident in. Not trying-too-hard, just... you, but the version of you who's showing up for something that matters.
Lucy:That's weirdly profound.
Rei:I contain multitudes. Now go get ready and text me afterward with details.
Lucy showered and agonized over her closet for twenty minutes before settling on dark jeans and a soft burgundy sweater that Rei had once said "made her look like the heroine of a fall-themed romance novel." She did her hair—actually styled it instead of just pulling it into a bun—and added minimal makeup.
When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Not because she looked different, but because she looked... present. Like someone who was participating in her own life instead of just maintaining it.
At 6:45, Lucy grabbed a bottle of wine from her small collection (a Pinot Noir that Uncle Walter had gifted her last Christmas), took a breath, and headed downstairs.
Jake's apartment was on the third floor. Lucy had walked past his door hundreds of times over the past three years, never knowing her Wednesday morning pork bun regular lived right there.
She knocked at exactly 7 PM.
The door opened, and Jake stood there in dark jeans and a navy button-down, hair slightly damp like he'd just showered, looking nervous and adorable.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi. I brought wine." Lucy held up the bottle like a shield.
"That's perfect. Come in."
Jake's studio apartment was small—about the same size as Lucy's—but somehow it felt different. More lived-in despite the IKEA furniture. There was a bookshelf full of DVDs, a collection of hockey sticks in the corner, and the succulent from the farmers market sitting on the windowsill.
The apartment smelled incredible.
"Are you actually cooking?" Lucy asked. "Like, successfully cooking?"
"So far. The chicken is in the oven, the potatoes are roasting, and I've only set off the smoke alarm once."
"That's impressive."
"My mom talked me through it. Twice." Jake took the wine bottle. "She also made me promise to tell you that if the food is terrible, it's her fault for raising a son who can't cook."
"I'm sure it will be great."
They stood in the kitchen—really just a galley with a two-burner stove and a tiny oven—and Lucy felt the nervous energy from earlier start to dissipate. This was Jake. Her Wednesday morning regular. The guy who'd been eating her pork buns for three years. The guy who'd kissed her yesterday and made her believe that maybe wanting things for herself wasn't selfish.
"Can I help with anything?" Lucy asked.
"You can open the wine while I check on the chicken."
They fell into an easy rhythm—Jake cooking, Lucy handling the wine, both of them talking about nothing and everything. The snow from yesterday, the first game of the season for the high school hockey team, whether the Patriots had any chance this year (Jake said no, Lucy had no opinion because she didn't follow football).
"Okay," Jake said finally, pulling the chicken from the oven. "Moment of truth."
He plated everything with more care than Lucy expected—chicken, roasted potatoes, green beans, everything arranged like he'd watched a cooking show. He even had fresh rosemary as garnish.
They sat at Jake's small table by the window, overlooking Main Street. The lights from the shops below cast a warm glow on the snowy sidewalks.
Lucy cut into the chicken. Took a bite.
"Jake. This is really good."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm impressed. This is legitimately delicious."
