Day five was a Sunday. I had the day off, a rare gift after a brutal week. We decided to be ambitious: homemade pasta.
"This feels like a chemistry experiment I'm destined to fail," Miles said, staring at the mound of flour on the counter like it might attack him.
"It's alchemy," I corrected. "Flour and eggs transformed into dough."
"That's not how alchemy works."
"It's howculinaryalchemy works. Trust the process."
He cracked eggs into the well of flour with intense concentration, his tongue poking out slightly the way it did when he was focused. I'd noticed that about him, the small tells, the habits I was cataloging without meaning to. The way he hummed under his breath when he was content. The way he always put his left shoe on first. The way he looked at me sometimes, like he still couldn't quite believe I was real.
"Now we knead," I said, showing him the motion. "Push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn."
"This is surprisingly violent."
"Bread-making is an aggressive endeavor."
We worked the dough together, our hands tangling and separating, flour dusting every surface, including ourselves. The kitchen looked like a blizzard had hit it. Flour on the counters, flour on the floor, flour somehow on the ceiling. I genuinely didn't know how that had happened.
"You've got a little…" Miles gestured at my face, trying not to laugh.
I reached up to wipe my cheek and felt the gritty powder. "Where?"
"Everywhere." He was definitely laughing now. "You look like a very confused ghost."
"You're one to talk." I pointed at his temple, where flour had settled into his dark hair, turning it prematurely gray. "You look like you aged thirty years."
"Accurate preview of coming attractions."
"Don't joke about that."
"Too soon?"
"Always." But I was smiling. We were both smiling, standing in his mother's flour-covered kitchen, looking absolutely ridiculous.
The laughter faded slowly, settling into something softer. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching the flour dust in the air like tiny stars. Miles was looking at me with that expression again, the one that made my heart stutter and my breath catch.
"Charlotte," he said quietly.
"Miles."
"You have flour on your nose."
"I know."
"It's very cute."
"Oh... Really?"
He reached out, his thumb brushing the flour from my nose with infinite gentleness. His hand lingered, cupping my cheek. The tremor was there, a faint vibration against my skin, and I leaned into it.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he said, his voice low. "Unless you have objections."
"No objections."
"Good."
He leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to change my mind. I met him halfway.
