“Anything else that comes up? You’re safe with me. I swear.”
“I know I am. That’s why I’m here.” She gave me a small, genuine smile, the kind that reached her eyes and made something inside me settle. We didn’t need to fill the silence; the comfort was in the steady togetherness, the wordless promise that we were both willing to try.
The air shifted between us. It felt like it did before she broke things off in that text.
She knew it. I knew it.
Neither of us said a word about it.
“Should we get started?” I asked, and she nodded.
The diner’s kitchen smelled faintly of maple syrup, and I think it would forever. I turned on the overhead lights, soft and warm, casting a golden glow over the counters and steel surfaces.
Eliza moved as if she belonged in a kitchen—rolling up her sleeves, pulling her hair back higher, tying on an apron. I watched her come alive again, hands working with practiced ease, shoulders relaxed.
I washed my hands at the deep metal sink, stealing a glance at her as she organized the bowls and measuring cups. There was a comfortable rhythm to the kitchen, punctuated by the scrape of the cutting boards being slid onto the counter, the clink ofa spoon against ceramic, and our quiet laughter echoing softly between the tiled walls. The air was filled with anticipation, the kind that turns ordinary routines into something memorable.
It felt different with her here—brighter, like we’d conjured a little sanctuary from the world outside. She set out the ingredients with a practiced ease, narrating each step as if teaching a secret ritual, and I found myself hanging on every word, eager to learn, eager to share in the quiet magic of this moment together.
I took a deep breath, trying to memorize the shape of her in this light, apron strings dangling, the soft hum of the fridge filling the silence. For a second, the world outside faded away—the clatter of our preparation, the tension with Graham, even the storm brewing in my own head. It was just us, the promise of something delicious, and the possibility of a new beginning.
I helped where I could—chopping herbs, slicing vegetables, trying not to stare too long.
We worked quietly for a bit. Our hands brushed once while we reached for the same mixing bowl. She didn’t pull away. Neither did I.
I caught her glancing up at me now and then, a smile tugging at her lips, as flour dusted her forearms and the scent of thyme rose in the air. There was a wordless harmony in our movements—passing bowls, sharing the sink, laughing when the dough stuck to her fingers. It was strangely intimate, all these small, ordinary acts stitched together, and I realized how much I wanted this moment to last.
“So,” I said, after a beat. “What made you agree to this? Not that I’m complaining.”
Her smile was quiet, but full of something stronger than words. “You did.”
I looked up.
“I just—” She shook her head. “Being around you is easy. And harder too.”
That made my heart trip. “Same.”
We finished up the mini pot pies—two of them—then slid them into the oven. She sat at the counter while they baked, sipping hot cocoa and waiting. She curled one leg up into the seat, her eyes flicking toward mine, then away.
“Nate?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing with you.”
I swallowed. “You don’t have to know. You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know,” she said, then smiled softly. “But I think I want to.” She watched me for a moment, then glanced around the kitchen like she was orienting herself again—the counters, the cooling ovens, the place that had become his. “Can I ask you something?” she said, lighter this time. “About you. Before here.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Ask.”
“You were an attorney, right?” Her tone was curious, not prying. “That feels very… not this.”
I smiled a little at that, leaning back against the counter. “It was fast. Constant. Long hours, high stakes. I liked it at first—felt good to be good at something that moved that quickly.” I paused, choosing my words. “It was also what my parents expected. Success, momentum, the next rung before you’d even settled on the one you were standing on.”
She nodded, absorbing that.
“But once Tilly came along,” I continued, quieter now, “everything sped up and slowed down at the same time. I didn’t want to miss things. I didn’t want her growing up with a dad who was always on the phone, always somewhere else.” I glanced around the kitchen again, the Pennywhistle humming softlyaround us. “This felt like a way to choose her. To choose a life that actually left room.”
