“Well,” I say finally, leaning back. “You were right. I forgot how much a decent meal can change the temperature of a situation.”
He dips his chin, acknowledging the point, and starts collecting plates.
I stop him, reaching out. “No. You cooked. I’ll clean.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” I take the dishes anyway. “But I’m not sitting while you do everything. And since I’m apparently not allowed near knives, this is my contribution.”
I suddenly realize I don’t see the knife anymore. That registers, automatically, even as I move past him. I don’t dwell on it.
My shoulder brushes his arm. The contact is brief, accidental, and still enough to send a sharp jolt through me that has nothing to do with surprise.
I focus on stacking the plates. On the sound of water as I turn on the sink.
He steps in beside me, close enough that I register his heat. He reaches over my shoulder to set a glass in the basin. His chest brushes my arm.
The reaction is immediate and unwelcome. My breath stutters before I can stop it. I keep my hands moving, pretending nothing happened.
“Here,” he says quietly, handing me a towel.
I take it without looking at him, grateful for something neutral to hold.
The counter is narrow. There’s nowhere to stand that doesn’t put us within inches of each other. Heat from the stove lingers in the air, mixing with something sharper that has nothing to do with cooking.
He shifts back, but only slightly. Enough to give me space. Not enough to break proximity. The distance is measured, chosen, even.
Silence stretches. It presses against my ribs until I have to fill it.
“You didn’t use a recipe,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere more brittle. “You do this a lot, don’t you?”
His attention stays on the sink. “I cook when I have time. It clears my head.”
The answer lands harder than it should.
I glance at him before I stop myself. His sleeves are still rolled with the ink highlighted against his skin. There’s nothing ornamental about him in this space, but he’s still beautiful.
I turn back to the counter before the thought finishes forming.
The plates are dry. I stack them carefully, slower than necessary, aware of how close he still is. Every small movement carries weight.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, because backing out now would draw attention. “This was… nice. Almost normal.” I pause, then add, quieter, “The kind of normal I don’t get much of.”
He looks at me then. Not sharply. Not accusing.
I don’t elaborate. I don’t need to. The statement is already more honest than I intended.
He nods once. “I get that.”
There’s no concession in it, or cruelty either. But an acknowledgment of something we share, a burden we both carry.
I tell myself to remember why I’m here. I tell myself not to read into the quiet in his expression, or the way his attention lingers, like the answer mattered more than he expected.
The last dish is dry. I turn and extend it toward him, and our fingers inadvertently touch.
It’s brief, clearly accidental. But it’s still enough that the moment sharpens, leading to his gaze dropping to where our hands meet. He doesn’t pull away immediately.
Neither do I.
