I keep going. And they only get worse… better?
On a grocery list: “Don’tleafme without spinach.”
Stuck to a mug of tea I make him: “You’retea-rrific.”
My Google search history is a sad state of affairs.
Beside a package of Oreos I left for him, on a bright blue square:“I’d share my last Oreo with you.”
That one felt a little close to a proposal. Oh well.
Every time I see him reading one, he presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh, and that makes me unreasonably happy.
I stick one to a stack of books on the store counter on my way out that day: “I’mboundto annoy you with these.”
What I don’t expect, when I’m grabbing a coffee before meeting Aiden, is a text from Gabe. Seeing his name light up my phone makes my stomach flutter.
Gabe: Where do you even find these, they’re so awful… but I kinda love them.
Excitement and nervous energy shift under my skin. He hasn’t texted me since before I moved in. This feels monumental.
Me: I might spend an unreasonable amount of time searching the internet for them…
He doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. My whole day seems brighter now.
The morning after, he leaves out a perfectly steeped cup of tea and half an Oreo before disappearing into the shop.Half. I laugh out loud, staring at it. He didn’t even leave me the side with the icing.
Then I see the note:
“Oreojudging me for this?”
I chuckle through a groan. I’ve created a monster.
The apartment smells incredible the second I walk in, warm and herby, garlic hanging in the air. I kick off my shoes by the door,tidy them the way Gabe leaves his, and roll my shoulders, sore from a full day at the gym.
Opening day is approaching, which means it’s been nothing but hauling boxes, double-checking equipment, and triple-checking every detail. Zeke and Jules were a huge help today, but I’m still running on fumes. My hoodie’s damp from the rain, my hair sticking to my forehead, and all I want is a shower and my bed.
Instead, I follow the sound of something sizzling in the kitchen.
Gabe’s at the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair falling forward as he stirs. There’s a cutting board out, carrots half-chopped, bread waiting to be sliced. He glances over his shoulder when he hears me, and for half a second, I see the flicker—the instinct to retreat—before he stops himself.
“Hi,” he says shyly. It’s like every time I leave and come back, he slips into that unsure state of mind about me. Like I might come back a different person.
“Hi,” I reply with a smile, coming to stand beside him. He doesn’t move away.
“Do you want to help?” he asks tentatively.
The words are casual, but I know this is him letting me in a little bit.
“Definitely,” I reply, “Put me to work.”
That gets me the faintest ghost of a smile. He slides the knife toward me and nods at the celery. “If you don’t mind chopping that.”
I wash my hands, grab the board, and start cutting. My shoulders start to loosen immediately. Beside me, Gabe adds more stock and stirs the pot, adding pinches of salt and pepper. We don’t talk much, but it doesn’t feel weird. It’s all very domestic, like this is our normal routine. It’s lovely, actually, just sharing this moment in time.
When I push the celery toward him, our fingers almost brush. He goes still for a beat—not flinching, just pausing—then keeps stirring. The tips of his ears go faintly pink, though.
We sit at the table with steaming bowls a little while later. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I’m already halfway through mine. The soup is hot and rich, exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
