My mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. “Music… trial and error… improvisation… You make it sound so… effortless.”
He smirks. “Because I like order. Chaos is… fun to watch from a safe distance.”
I groan, leaning against the counter as the smell of food finally shifts from burning disaster to… edible. Somehow, against all odds, he’s turning my domestic apocalypse into an actual meal.
I glance at him, eyes wide. “You’re… you’re really good at this.”
He shrugs, smirk softening just slightly. “I know what I’m doing. You just… enjoy the ride.”
And I do. I really, really do.
The plates are balanced precariously in my hands, wobbling like they’re daring me to drop them. Ethan follows behind, carrying a glass of wine for each of us. Somehow, despite the kitchen apocalypse, he’s produced something that actually looks—and smells—like dinner.
We step out onto the patio. The lake glitters in the late afternoon sun, the water catching every streak of gold and pink in a way that makes me pause. The breeze drifts past, cool and soft, carrying the faint scent of pine and distant smoke from someone else’s barbecue.
I set the plates on the small outdoor table, hands trembling slightly. “I—uh… don’t drop anything,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.
Ethan sets the wine down and leans against the railing, watching me with that calm, amused expression that makes my heart do stupid things. “You didn’t burn the lake, so I’d say you’re already ahead of the curve,” he says lightly.
I flush. “Thanks… I think. Barely.”
We sit, and I fidget with my fork, trying to act casual while secretly marveling at the fact that we’re eating a real meal I didn’t set on fire. He lifts his glass to me. “To improvisation,” he says, smirk softening. “And surviving domestic chaos.”
“To surviving domestic chaos,” I echo, laughing.
I take a tentative bite. My taste buds are shocked in a good way. “Wait,” I whisper, fork halfway to my mouth. “This… actually tastes… good.”
Ethan smirks, leaning back in his chair. “See? Trial and error. Cooking’s like music.”
I choke on my bite, waving my fork helplessly. “Are you trying to make me feel better about almost burning down my kitchen?”
“Maybe,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Or maybe I’m trying to teach you that even chaos can taste amazing if you handle it right.
I almost snort wine out my nose. “Yeah, well, I handle chaos with a fire extinguisher.” I gesture vaguely at the now slightly steaming pan I barely survived, and my wine glass wobbles. It tips. Ethan reaches instinctively, steadying it before it spills all over the table.
“Smooth,” he teases, eyes crinkling in amusement.
“Shut up,” I mutter, blushing. “It’s… uh… wine was thirsty.”
He chuckles, and I feel my chest tighten. I take another bite, trying to focus on the food, but my fork slips on the pasta and somersaults onto the table. I groan. “I’m… I’m really good at this,” I mutter sarcastically.
“You’re… endearing,” he says, smirk softening, and I notice his gaze runs down my arms.
I glance down at my arms, suddenly self-conscious. “Do people… do people notice tattoos a lot?” I ask, as casually as possible.
He tilts his head, intrigued. “Is that why you hide your arms?” His eyes linger just a second too long on the sleeve line, just enough to make me squirm.
I stiffen, heart hammering. “Uh… some people judge,” I say vaguely, sidestepping the truth. “You know. They see the ink and assume things about you.”
He nods slowly, still watching me, but without pressing. “Fair enough,” he says. “People are dumb. You can’t control what they think.”
I swallow, realizing that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do my whole life. Control it. Everything. My music, my chaos, my image. And here’s Ethan, calm, steady, actually listening.
I try to laugh it off, but I feel my cheeks heat up. “Well… some people do judge. But that’s life. I’ve… gotten used to it.”
“Good,” he says, voice low, eyes locking on mine. “Then let them. You don’t need their approval.”
I look down at my plate, pretending to focus on dinner, but the electricity between us is impossible to ignore. My hand brushesagainst his as I reach for the wine, and neither of us pulls away. I want to, but I don’t.
