I remember what he told me. Back at the beginning of all this. How cooking shows are his guilty pleasure.
“Iron Chef?” I ask, settling onto the couch beside him.
He glances at me. “Is this okay?”
“Absolutely.”
His smile could power the entire resort.
I curl up next to him, and somehow—naturally, easily, like we’ve done this a thousand times—his arm comes around my shoulders. I fit against his side like I was made to be there.
The show plays on. He tells me about the chefs, explains the judging criteria, gets genuinely excited when someone pulls off a particularly impressive technique. “Look at that perfect sear.”
We settle deeper into the couch. Into each other.
It feels romantic in a way that has nothing to do with the fireplace or the rose petals or the honeymoon suite. It’s just…us. Watching TV. His thumb tracing absent patterns on my shoulder. I feel completely safe under his arm.
This is what it would be like, I think. If this were real. If we were just two people who chose each other. Quiet nights in. Cooking shows and comfortable silence. His arm around me like it belongs there.
The show ends. Another one starts.
Neither of us suggests moving.
At some point, I tilt my head up to look at him and find him already looking down at me.
The air changes.
His eyes drop to my lips.
He leans in.
Just slightly.
My breath catches.
Closer.
I can feel the warmth of him. My heart hammers in my chest. I can’t hear the TV anymore. And then, something flickers across his face. Some thought. Some reminder.
He pulls back.
Just an inch. But it doesn’t feel like the last time we almost kissed. There’s nothing cold about it. Just careful. Wistful. A moment held between us.
“You should probably get some sleep,” he says quietly, his breath brushing my skin. “Big day tomorrow.”
“Right,” I manage to breathe. I pull away and stand on unsteady legs. “You’re right.”
I cross to the door and pause. “Good night, Brody.”
“Good night.”
I step into the room and close the door behind me, leaning back against it, my head spinning. I press a hand to my cheek, my cool palm soothing against my scalding skin.
We’re playing with fire.
There’ve been too many close calls.
If we keep going like this, we’re bound to fall.
