Every time.
Even if she’s bent over her pan trying to figure out what she’s done wrong. And they’re not polite smiles either—they’re real.
They twist one way when she thinks the joke is actually funny—crooked and bright. Then, another way, when she thinks it’scorny. Smug but entertained. And I even catch her rolling her eyes a couple of times.
Hell, I’ll take those over swooning any day.
By the end of the lesson, the food looks good, and everyone’s relaxed, sipping wine and enjoying their creations.
I’m riding that familiar post-class buzz, but the compliments and questions they ask me—stuff they could’ve Googled in ten seconds—slide right off.
None of it lands.
I want her.
“You’re very charming.” She steps to the counter, close enough that her arm brushes mine. “I get it now.”
“Get what?”
She dunks her plate in the sink of sudsy water. “Why they listen to you.” She washes the plate with a knitted washcloth, watching me over her shoulder. “You do the confident thing. The ‘trust me, I know what I’m doin’ thing.”
I laugh. “I do know what I’m doing.”
“It’s still charming.” She rinses the plate and sets it on the drying rack.
Neither of us moves right away. We just stand here. Too close. Not moving.
“I’ve got a break until three.”
Her smile goes warm and soft. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She glances toward the hallway. Then back at me. “Lead the way, Chef.”
Sneaking around shouldn’t be this thrilling. It is.
Sunlight filters in through the curtains in her room. I close the door behind us and lean back against it, watching her kick off her shoes. Her shirt is next, and we don’t make it very far after that.
But later, staring at the ceiling with her half on top of me, leg thrown over mine, her head nestled in the crook of my arm, I’m surprised at how unhurried I feel.
She’s half under the blanket, half bare, warm skin against mine.
There’s a plate of cookies balanced on my stomach. She smuggled them in at some point. A chocolate chip rolls off her and lands on my chest.
“You’re getting crumbs in the bed.” I grab it, pop it in my mouth, and let it dissolve slowly.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Maybe we should move to your bed.”
“I don’t want crumbs in my bed.” She laughs and breaks off another piece, sliding it between my lips. “I could stay here all day.
This is the part that messes with me.
Usually, after sex, there’s a moment—a shift. One or both reach for our phones, our clothes, or an excuse to get moving.
Even when it’s good—especially when it’s good—there’s an understanding that the bubble pops eventually.
This bubble is stubborn. Won’t pop. Just comfortably stretches.
