“I meant jeans. Sweats. Loungewear... Something that doesn’t look like you might fire me.”
“I’m not firing you,” I say automatically. She has only been my wife for a few hours, and still, the thought feels unbearable. I rub at the center of my chest, trying to ease the tension.
She grins. “Good.”
“What do you wear when you’re not working or working out?” she asks.
“I’m usually working,” I admit.
She shakes her head fondly. “Okay. We’ll fix that.”
She disappears again.
I take a deep breath and pull on a pair of gray sweats and a T-shirt. It feels wrong. Vulnerable.
When I rejoin her in the main living area, the food has arrived. From what I can see so far, she ordered sushi, pad thai, dumplings, spring rolls, pizza and fries.
“You ordered for a sports team,” I observe.
She shrugs. “I haven’t had half of this in a while. And food tells you a lot about a person.”
“Such as?”
“Are they adventurous? Do you like the same thing or variety?” she says while pulling out more containers. "Are they stuck in their ways, particular... picky."
She hands me a beer and starts plating food like it’s second nature. And she talks.
About Emily. About work. About how she hates red onions but loves garlic. About how she eats fries first because they don’t reheat well. She talks about what it was like when they first got her mom's diagnosis, and how it felt like such a relief to finally know, but also terrifying because of what they were facing.
I find myself responding without thinking. Engaging not because it's polite but because I genuinely want to. Laughing once. Then again.
The food dwindles slowly. Not because we’re still hungry, but because neither of us seems eager for the evening to end.
Lucy sits cross-legged on the couch now, sweater sleeves pulled down over her hands, idly stealing pieces of sushi from the container between us. She eats like she’s forgotten anyone is watching, unguarded, thoughtful, occasionally humming when she likes something particularly well.
“You’re staring,” she says mildly, without looking up.
“I’m not.”
She glances at me, one eyebrow lifting. “You absolutely are.”
I don’t bother denying it again.
She smiles, small and amused, and reaches for another dumpling. “You don’t eat like someone who enjoys food.”
“I eat because it’s required.”
“That’s tragic.”
“I’m not tragic.” I argue.
She tilts her head, studying me, the gold flecks in her eyes bright. “You’re… very intense for someone in sweatpants.”
“I regret the sweatpants,” I tell her.
She laughs again, and this time it catches me completely off guard, bright and unfiltered, the sound echoing in the sitting room. I instinctively want to lean into it, like my body recognizes that sound before my mind does.
We clean up together, wordlessly. She insists on stacking containers. I insist on handling the trash. We nearly collide at the counter, and the proximity sends a sharp awareness through me, her warmth, the faint scent of soap and citrus, the way she smellsdifferentwithout makeup and perfume.
