The smell hits me instantly. Warm. Rich. Alive.
Chopped vegetables are lined up neatly on the counter like she’s been cooking in my kitchen forever. Peppers. Zucchini.Onion. Something green I don’t recognize but trust anyway. Chopped chicken marinating in bowl next to the stove.
“What are you making?” I ask.
She glances over her shoulder, smiling. “A light stir-fry.”
“Smells incredible.”
“Babe could, you get the white wine from the fridge,” she says. “It should be chilled.”
I do as told. And she just called me ‘babe’. It was very casual but I liked it. Something warm settled in my chest that this woman referred to me as her ‘babe.’
Hiding a grin, I poured her a glass.
She takes a sip, hums approvingly, then goes back to stirring like this is just how evenings work.
This is so far from beers and burgers I almost don’t recognize my own life.
We eat outside on the tiny patio.
Plastic chairs. City noise. String lights I put up on a whim years ago and never thought much about.
And somehow?—
It’s perfect.
The food. The wine. Her laugh.
She talks about Pilates. About shopping. About nothing that feels heavy.
I take her hand across the table and kiss her knuckles.
“You’re perfect,” I say, before I can stop myself.
She smiles, sweet and unguarded. “You’re ridiculous.”
But she doesn’t pull her hand away.
We clean up together.
She rinses. I dry.
Easy. Familiar. Like muscle memory I didn’t know I had.
Later, I head into the bedroom to grab my phone—and notice the desk drawer is open.
That’s weird.
I’m obsessive about closing drawers.
I shut it automatically.
Then pause.
Open it again.
Everything’s there.
