“Did you customize your shoes?”
She choked, a laugh bursting out of her. “That’s your question?”
I nodded, smiling at her quickly before returning my gaze to the French toast in the pan. It was essential to not let it burn. “The Vans with the little beasts on them. Did you design them yourself?”
“I did, yeah.”
“I love them.” I smiled at her. “You noted my citrus shoes, but those are the beginning. Fun fact about me to file away, Doc, is that I have a shoe collection.”
“Oh my god, me too.” She set her leg down, instead leaning onto the counter. Her eyes were brighter now, and seeing her open like this made something in my chest unclench.
“I knew I liked you for a reason,” I said, flipping the toast. “Alright, next question. Go.”
She narrowed her eyes like she didn’t trust me to keep things friendly. “Okay. Favorite pair in your collection?”
I smirked. “My red-and-white Jordans, high-tops. I only wear them on away-game days when I need the universe to behave.”
“Superstitions?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Half my personality is rituals. Certain music, same breakfast, specific hoodie during warm-ups. Don’t mess with the system.”
“That tracks,” she muttered, reaching for her water. “You give off very specific hoodie energy.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
She shrugged, coy. “Depends on the hoodie.”
“You’re brutal,” I said, plating her French toast with precision. “Here you go, miss ‘two minutes and I’m out.’”
She looked down at the plate and then back at me, her smile blooming again. “I said two minutes. I never it couldn’t repeat.”
“Cheater.” I slid into the stool next to her, close enough that our knees bumped again.
She didn’t move away.
I bit into my toast and let out a content sigh. “Damn. I really am good.”
“You’re gonna eat your own cooking and then compliment yourself out loud?”
“I’m an only child at heart,” I said, mouth full. “Gotta hype myself up.”
She took her first bite and made a soft noise of approval. That sound should’ve been illegal coming from her mouth with her looking like she did, smiling and leaning into me. “This is delicious.”
“It’s the extra cinnamon that really brings the flavor.” I took another bite but really wanted to watch her reactions. She cut small pieces and took her time eating, savoring almost. She crossed her eyes, letting out that throaty sound again.
“I apologize for ever considering turning this down. Please, anytime you need extra eggs for French toast, let me know.”
That sounded like an open invitation, and I grinned. I had plans to stop by immediately to ask for ingredients, even if I had my own. “I believe it’s my question now. So, what is your favorite pair of shoes you own?”
Her eyes lit up like I’d asked her something deeply profound. She wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb and leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Oh, that’s a tough one.”
“Doc, you should’ve been prepared. I only ask the hard-hitting stuff.”
She tapped her fork against her plate, thinking. “Okay, fine. It’s a pair of high-top white Converse with hand-painted lilac flowers on the sides. I found the artist on Instagram, sent them my old shoes, and they came back like wearable art. I’ve only worn them twice because I’m afraid of scuffing them.”
“Custom shoes and sentimental. I’m impressed,” I said, nudging her foot lightly under the counter. “Didn’t peg you for a Converse girl.”
“I contain multitudes,” she said, mock serious. “You think you’ve got me figured out, but I’m always one step ahead.”
