“You don’t have to cook,” Caleb protested weakly, even as his bear practically purred at the idea.
Hannah rummaged through a cabinet, pulling out a dusty can of tomatoes and some spices that Caleb had forgotten he owned.
“You really don’t have much in,” she observed, not unkindly. “But I’ve had plenty of practice at creating a meal from almost nothing.”
“Living on my own...” he began, watching her crack eggs into a bowl. “It never seemed worth the effort of cooking just for me.”
She glanced up at him, a flash of understanding in her eyes. “Well, tonight you’re not on your own, are you?”
His stomach clenched, and it had nothing to do with hunger.
His bear, for once, didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.
Chapter Five – Hannah
Hannah took in the sparse contents of the refrigerator and cupboards. Caleb was right. There wasn’t much to work with. But she’d made meals out of less.
Just never in the home of a man she’d only just met. A stranger’s home, really... when she thought about it. Though nothing about Caleb felt strange. Quite the opposite.
And here she was, about to cook dinner in his kitchen after the most unexpected detour of her life.
The realization should have unsettled her more than it did.
The events of the day crowded in: the car breaking down, the expensive repair quote, and now this unfamiliar house with this unfamiliar man.
Except Caleb didn’t feel unfamiliar at all, and that unsettled her more than anything else.
“Let me see what we can put together,” she said, more to herself than to him. She needed to focus on something practical, something she could control. This whole situation was temporary, she told herself. Just a night or two. No need to get comfortable. No need to feel anything at all.
Hannah rolled up her sleeves and began pulling items from the cupboard, setting them on the counter with precise movements. The habit was automatic. Inventory first. Options second.
“Do you have any pasta? Rice? Potatoes?”
“There might be some pasta in that cabinet,” Caleb said, pointing to a narrow pantry door.
She nodded and opened it, finding half a box of spaghetti. “Perfect.”
Working in someone else’s kitchen should have felt awkward, but Hannah moved with purposeful efficiency, creating order from chaos. She’d done this countless times before, not as a cook exactly, but someone used to stepping into unfamiliar places and making them work.
Assess what was available. Decide what mattered. Make it work.
It was a skill born of necessity, not choice, but one that served her well both professionally and privately.
“I can help,” Caleb offered, hovering at the edge of the counter. “Just tell me what you need.”
Hannah paused, wooden spoon in hand. She wasn’t used to having help. Usually, she did everything herself because that was safer than depending on someone who might not follow through. But the kitchen was small, and standing there alone while he watched felt even more uncomfortable.
“You can chop the onion,” she said finally, sliding one across the counter.
He nodded and reached for a knife, their hands brushing briefly. Hannah pulled back, focusing on the task before her. The kitchen became neutral territory. Not his. Not hers. Something shared, at least for now.
As they began to cook, Hannah slipped into a familiar rhythm. She didn’t explain what she was doing; she simply did it. Tomatoes from the can simmered with herbs she’d found in the back of a cabinet. The eggs would become a simple, improvised carbonara-style sauce. She moved with confidence, making decisions instinctively and adapting to what was available.
“My foster mom in the sixth grade taught me how to stretch a jar of sauce to feed five kids,” Hannah said as she sprinkled dried herbs into the pot. The words slipped out before she could stop them, a fragment of memory rising unbidden to the surface.
“She sounds like an inspiring woman,” Caleb said. He didn’t push for more, just accepted the small offering of her past.
“You learn to be creative when the grocery money runs out before the end of the month,” she continued, stirring the sauce with rhythmic movements. “One egg, a little milk, some stale bread, you’d be surprised what can become a meal.”
