Her breath catches.
We walk in comfortable quiet, her hand warm in mine. The gravel softens into packed earth, and the sanctuary fields breathe around us. Every so often, her thumb brushes mine, a tiny stroke that feels anything but accidental to my pulse.
And then she says, “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
She hesitates. “Why cooking?”
“Someone had to keep my friends alive.”
She laughs softly, but waits for the real answer.
“My friends and I were abandoned when we were kids,” I say.
She sucks in a breath. “I’m so sorry.”
I squeeze her hand. “We formed a bond out of unhappy circumstances. No one taught us anything normal. We learned how to survive, but not how to… live.” I guide her gently around a pile of animal scat. “Cooking felt like the first thing that opened the world a little instead of closing it.”
She tilts her face toward me, listening with her whole body. I’m always amazed at how deeply she listens.
“When I was cooking, I didn’t have to run from things trying to kill me. The stove was predictable. When you messed up, it told you. Burned you a bit, but it didn’t lie. And when you got it right…” I shrug. “You created something good.”
Her fingers tighten on mine. “Thank you for telling me that.”
The way she says it steadies something inside me that I didn’t know was shaking.
“You’re getting good at cooking,” I add. “Really good.”
She grins, her entire face lighting up, and God, it makes her even more beautiful.
We reach the clearing overlooking the far pasture. I spread out the blanket, set the basket down, and help her sit. She kneels carefully, fingers mapping the woven fabric.
“This is really nice, Jason,” she murmurs.
“You make it nice.” The words slip out before I can stop it.
She blushes a pretty pink that stains her cheeks in cute blotches.
We eat the simple meal I threw together—seasoned chicken, crisp vegetables, and warm bread. I pour her a small glass of wine, and she sniffs it, cataloging the crisp, floral scent the way others catalog color.
“It’s delicious,” she says. “The seasoning is perfect. And the vegetables—oh, I love that little crunch.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah? Good.”
Good.Good?
That’s what I go with?
But there are no words to describe how her enjoyment and her trust makes me feel.
“Even the little burnt bit is nice,” she says. “Adds character.”
I almost choke. I burned it, and she’s praising it.
No one has ever looked at a mistake I made and called it anything but a problem.
But she finds something good.
