Not now.
I decided to go with hot chocolate.
Which, in hindsight, was a bold move considering I didn’t actually know how to make decent hot chocolate. But it felt right—something soft after the storm, something familiar. I figured if I got the ratios kind of right, she wouldn’t complain too much.
I was wrong.
She took one sip and immediately gagged, coughing into the sleeve of her hoodie like I’d just poisoned her.
“What is this?” she choked out, eyes watering. “Is this a war crime?”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. A real laugh, from the gut. It cracked something open in me. Seeing her here, on my couch, tearing into my culinary crimes—it felt good. Familiar. Safe. Like before everything went sideways.
“It’s comfort in a cup,” I said, handing her a paper towel with mock seriousness. “Shut up and drink it.”
“I’d rather lick a battery,” she muttered, but she took another sip, anyway.
We made our way to the couch. She curled into one corner, legs tucked under her, shoulders hunched like she was trying to shrink herself. I hated seeing her like that—guarded, quiet. Not because I needed her to perform some version of herself for me, but because I missed the spark she usually carried.
I sat across from her, angled slightly, close enough that my knee brushed hers if either of us moved even a little. I didn’t. Not yet. I was still gauging the temperature. She was here. That was already more than I could’ve asked for earlier today.
The silence settled, but not in a bad way. It was the kind of quiet that had weight to it. Not uncomfortable—just full. I held my mug in both hands and stared down into the overly sweet sludge I’d created. Honestly, it tasted like warm sadness.
Still, I sipped it.
She caught me grimacing and snorted. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” I admitted. “I don’t know what I did wrong. Thought I followed the instructions.”
“You used water, didn’t you?”
“…No?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, yes.” I sighed. “Milk felt like a commitment.”
“Hot chocolate is a commitment.”
“Apparently.”
She gave me a half-smile. Not her usual grin, not the full-force sunlight I was used to, but it was something. I held onto it like a lifeline.
I shifted a little closer, just enough that our knees touched. She didn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“For the hot chocolate?” she asked, teasing, but I could see the real question behind her eyes.
“For everything.”
Her gaze dropped to her mug, then back to me.
I didn’t expect forgiveness. But I hoped, maybe, for a little grace.
“Next time,” she said softly, “use milk.”
I nodded.
