“I’m starting to get used to this, you know,” I tease. “Coming home to warm food.”
I’d meant it as a joke, since he only cooks once or twice a week depending on his schedule. But my tone comes out raw and honest. Etched with all the yearning I can’t hide.
He turns away. The silence grates me.
Vince has to know how I feel, right?
I lean against the counter and watch the small things I wish I could unsee—or rather, the things I wish didn’t have to happen. The way he braces his hip against the island. How his hand lingers on the counter between steps. The careful way he sets the knife down or rolls his shoulders, then keeps going like nothing’s wrong.
I hate it. Vince is in pain. Always.
He’s in pain and trying to hide it… even while making me dinner.
I step in to help but he gently waves me off. “You just got home. Go sit.”
I swallow back my reply, stepping aside awkwardly. Since when does Vince not want my help?
When he sees me still standing there, he gestures to the cabinet. “Can you get the plates? These are almost done.”
I nod weakly. “Sure.”
I move around him, noticing the way he shifts again to give me space, turning his body sideways instead of stepping back. It’s considerate, but it feels… intentional. Like maybe every motion costs him something or maybe he’s less comfortable around me. Did I do something?
As he plates the food, I look past him toward the living room, and my eyes widen. The tree is still up, but half the ornaments are gone. The boxes, which I had shoved into the hall closet after Christmas, are now stacked neatly by the door with open lids, and he’s spread tissue paper across the coffee table, like he had been wrapping the ornaments.
“You’re packing the decorations up?” I ask, stunned.
He pauses, following my gaze. “You’ve been saying you wanted to get them, so I thought I’d help. I didn’t get very far, though.” The disappointment is unmistakable in his voice.
“You could’ve waited for me,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“I know.” His hand tightens on the handle of the frying pan. “I just had some energy, so I wanted to do something… I don’t know. Normal.”
The word comes out clipped, almost bitter, landing harder than he probably meant it to. It makes my heart ache for him.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting normal, or even doing these things on his own. But I don’t think that’s what it’s about. He’s trying to beuseful.I just don’t want him to push too farand end up back at the hospital. I picture him alone in the living room, lifting boxes, bending, moving things around. And it makes unease swirl in my stomach. What if he’d pushed himself too far, and I wasn’t there to see it?
“Vince, are you okay?” I ask.
“Yup,” he says quickly. “Just tired. Would you mind getting the wine?”
I move automatically, but my attention keeps drifting back to him, clocking all the small things. The way he moves like he’s budgeting energy. I try not to think about it. Maybe I’m overthinking everything. Iamtired from a long day at work.
He carries the plates to the table, moving slowly.
I sit beside him. “Smells amazing.”
He finally gives me a genuine smile. “Thanks. I didn’t realize how much I missed this until I started doing it for you.”
“What? Cooking?”
He nods. “I’ve always enjoyed it, even if it’s nothing fancy.”
I nearly snort. “Well, Georgie would be jealous if she knew we were having steak. I don’t cook it. Like, ever.”
He pauses. “You like it, right?”
“Oh, I love steak. I just don’t like making it.” I reach for his hand. “Thank you, hon.”
