He’s quietly fixing a sauce while I form little bows with our dough. Whatever he’s making, though, smells delicious.
He moves the pan away.
“I’m sorry.” My shaky voice carries in the space, heavy with silence between us.
“For what?” he asks nonchalantly, washing his hands and standing by me, mimicking what I’m doing with my hands—taking a piece of dough, placing it in his palm, and pulling, turning it into little bows.
I sigh. “For stopping halfway, whatever that was. I got carried away and then?—”
“You don’t have to explain. You changed your mind. That’s valid.”
“But…”
“It doesn’t really matter why, Natalie. You changed your mind. That’s a good enough reason to stop.” He squeezes my hand. “I promise.”
This sweet man, standing so close, I can feel the warmth of him, like he’s already learned the shape of my silence, growing around it as he gets to know me.
“What if you get tired of my indecisiveness?”
The question feels smaller out loud than it does inside me, but it still carries all my fear and my hopes that he doesn’t crush my heart in this moment.
He smiles fondly, his eyes softening in a way that makes my chest hurt. He lifts his hands and holds my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks like he’s memorizing me, like I’m the most precious thing. “I won’t.”
Something inside me tightens. I nod because if I speak, I might unravel, so I turn back to what I’m doing. We both do, silently working side by side until dinner is done.
No pressure, questions, or comments. Just two people quietly getting into a rhythm of sharing space, pretending the silence isn’t heavy with things unsaid. With my fears and my insecurities. With his previous questions.
I’m glad he didn’t ask or push for an explanation, because how do I explain to him everything he will find when he finally sees what’s underneath?
What am I going to do?
I want him so badly, it scares me.
I want him in a way that feels reckless, dangerous, but I don’t want him to run when he sees all the scars—the fractures, theproof of things I survived but never really healed from. I want him to keep looking at me the way he does now: like I’m the sun, not like I’m some sort of broken china glued together, fragile and temporary, waiting to crack again.
“Natalie?” he asks gently, sitting next to me on the bench at the dinner table, close enough that our thighs touch, the heat of him irradiating, keeping me tethered. The pasta we made is nicely set on plates in front of us, steam rising and looking damn good. He’s a natural in the kitchen, and I’m so glad he said yes to my late-night cooking shenanigans.
“This is so good,” I mutter with a mouthful, because if I joke, if I eat, I don’t have to confess.
“I meant it when I said I could be patient.”
The words hit harder than I expect, because what does he even mean? I cough, swallowing my food too fast and taking a sip of water, blinking away the sudden sting behind my eyes.
“You’re worth waiting for, okay? I want you to be comfortable. We can stop anytime. I mean it.”
I rest my head on his shoulder in both surrender and relief. I breathe for the first time in what feels like forever, letting myself exist there for a moment. “Thank you. It means more than you know.”
“No need.”
“What if you get tired of me?” This right here is raw vulnerability.
He smiles, and I don’t have to look at him to know he is, because the way he whispers the words lets me know exactly how much he means them. “I could never. Just keep feeding me, and we’ll be fine.”
“And coffee?”
“And coffee.”
“Thankyou for coming over tonight. I had fun.”
