“Fuck,” I say, because I’m not sure I can be in the same bed with him and not want him in the way that makes everything complicated.
We’re not ready for sex.
Though, fuck, didn’t I do that earlier—sit in the tub with a very beautiful, very naked Cleo and just hold her because she asked?Didn’t that teach me the difference between needing and protecting?
I can protect him.I can be that guy for him, more so when he’s being vulnerable.
“Yeah.Okay,” I tell him.
We make dinner like two people pretending we know how to be ordinary.The staff have all gone back to their places.Tonight, the kitchen is ours.No silver trays, no staged niceties—just a pantry, a bottle of decent olive oil, a lemon, and a stubborn will to make something small feel like us.
Eddie takes point on the chopping board.He slices shallots so thin they practically dissolve, the knife tapping a quiet rhythm against the board.The smell of onion, soft and raw, hits the air.He tosses the slivers into a pan where butter melts and hisses, then drops in smashed garlic and a scatter of chili flakes.Heat climbs, and the kitchen fills with a scent that makes you forgive everything—even yourself.
I’m on pasta duty—straight from the pantry, long strands that go into a pot of salted water like hands slipping into warm sleeves.I stir, leaning close to steal a breath of steam, and taste the broth on the spoon.It’s not perfect, but it is ours.Eddie watches me with that look he gets, the one that reads like both question and answer.When I pass him the spoon, he lifts it to his lips and his eyes close for a second.It is stupid and quiet and makes my throat ache in a good way.
We move around each other without bumping.He reaches for the lemon and zests it with the rasp of a grater; the scent brightens the room.I catch the zest in my palm and drop it into the pan with a handful of chopped parsley, tossing the pasta in to soak up the sauce.When I reach for the colander, he reaches too, and our fingers brush—electric, and then we laugh like idiots.
Eddie slides a spoonful of sauce into my mouth.I close my eyes and savor.The taste is warm and more than just food.I wipe my fingers on a towel, and he takes my hand and laces his thumb through my knuckles the way someone steadies a teetering glass.Not possessive.Not showy.Just a small proof that we’re here.
I hum under my breath, a soft rhythm that mirrors the knife, and he hums back—an answering chord.There is chemistry in the tiny choreography: the way he angles his shoulder to let me pass, the way I reach to steady a pan when his arm tenses.We argue about salt and laugh about burnt bread.We find a crooked candle and set it on the counter; the flame leans toward us like it has a plan.
We sit at the counter with two bowls, knees almost touching.He feeds me a forkful and watches like he’s memorizing how I take it.I feed him back.The conversation is small—old stories, dumb jokes—but the way we hand each other pieces of ourselves over a homemade meal does more work than any big speech could.
Tonight, the kitchen is proof that we can do something ordinary and make it mean everything.
Afterwards, we clear the plates together, fingers sliding along the same dish towel.When the kitchen is finally quiet, Eddie catches my eye, and the look says something without a sentence:You and me, here.Eddie takes my hand and squeezes.
We get ready for bed, and when I climb in, I’m afraid one of us might do something stupid.But I push the fear away.He leans back against the headboard, legs long, expression carefully neutral, letting me choose the distance.I settle next to him.
“I need more from you,” I say.“Not more control.More ...you.Tell me when you’re one inch from calling the plane.Tell me when you want to be a hero so bad your teeth hurt.Don’t make me guess.I’m bad at guessing when I’m trying not to use.”
He exhales, and the breath trembles down his arm, like he’s trying to let something escape without naming it.“I can do that.And I need more from you.Not songs.Not jokes.Tell me when the bottle is whispering to you.Tell me when you want to run into a fire because it’s easier than sitting with the mess after.”
“I said I’m bad at that,” I answer.
“I heard.I’m asking anyway.”
“Fine,” I murmur.“But we need rules.For us, not just for her.”
“Lay them on me.”
I lift three fingers without moving my head.“One: we don’t turn Cleo’s care into a contest.No points for who stayed longest or who said the right thing first.Two: if one of us hits a nine, the other tags in—no heroics.Three: we book couples therapy and don’t cancel because some meeting or magazine thinks it owns you.”
He exhales a laugh that’s almost a sound of surrender.“You want more than one.”
“I do.But I want you to remember them.”
“Add one,” he says.“For me.”
“Four: we pick a word.If either of us says it, we stop what we’re doing and reset.”
He grins, the boy and the man folding into one expression.“Like a safe word?”
“Call it an emotional safe word if that helps.”I work hard not to roll my eyes.
He smiles smaller.“So not pineapple.”
“Never pineapple.”I slap a hand to my forehead.“Not a fruit, Edgar.”
