“I am not.”
“You are,” he said gently.
I froze for half a second, then kept working. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“I’m not trying to,” he said. “I um, I guess I like it when you sound happy.”
My chest did that stupid, aching thing. He crushed the tomatoes with his hands, calm and sure, while I rolled meatballs—small and careful, the way I always was, like precision might keep everything from falling apart. He tore basil and told me about Tilly’s dance class, about how his grandpa clapped off-beat and earned a deeply offended look from a four-year-old in a pink tutu.
I laughed, then caught myself, surprised by how easily it came.
We bumped hips at the sink. I should’ve moved. I didn’t. Our fingers brushed, and this time the contact lingered—warm and sweet. The kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and herbs, and something softer underneath, I felt like I belonged here with him.
For a moment, I let myself pretend this was normal. That cooking with him didn’t feel like stepping into a life I wasn’t sure I was allowed to want. That I wasn’t already bracing for the moment it might disappear.
He glanced at me then—not rushed, not distracted—and the care in his eyes made my throat tighten.
I kept my focus on the counter, breathing through it, because feeling this felt risky. And because part of me already knew this wasn’t just dinner. It was hope, sneaking in when I wasn’t looking.
We moved around each other without thinking about it—him reaching past me for the salt, me sliding the cutting board out of the way. He whipped up a vinaigrette, frowned thoughtfully, then held the spoon out to me for a taste.
“Well?” he asked.
I leaned in, tasted, and nodded. “It’s good.”
“Just good? That’s all I get?” His mouth curved, hopeful.
“It’s very good,” I said. “But I bet you’re still going to adjust it,” I added.
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
He hesitated, just long enough to tell the truth without meaning to. “Because I like knowing I tried my best to make it perfect.”
The words settled between us, gentle and heavy all at once.
I swallowed. “You don’t have to be so careful with everything.”
His eyes met mine, steady and warm. “I know,” he said softly. “Just the things I don’t want to mess up.”
The oven hummed, the kitchen warm and golden, the kind of cozy that sneaks up on you. He brushed a piece of parsley from my sleeve with an absentminded tenderness that made my pulse stutter. Not a big gesture. Just care, offered without asking anything in return.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, noticing my hesitation even when I hadn’t said a word.
I nodded too fast, then slowed myself. “Yeah. I am. I just—” I shrugged, searching for the right shape of the truth. “I forget sometimes that things can feel easy.”
His eyes softened, like he understood exactly what that cost me to admit. “Easy doesn’t mean careless,” he said. “It means you’re safe enough to let go.”
That almost undid me.
I turned back to the counter, busying myself with the salad, when my gaze snagged on my bag slung over the chair. The stiff edge of the envelope peeked out, all sharp corners and bad timing. I’d been pretending it wasn’t there. Pretending it wasn’t heavy.
He followed my line of sight.
He glanced toward my bag on the chair. Obviously, he’d caught me eyeballing it like it held a nuclear weapon instead of an invitation to an evening of dread. “Everything okay?”
I wiped my hands, pulled the envelope free, and set it on the counter like evidence. “Graham’s grand opening,” I said. “He invited me with a pretentious invitation.”
