He smiles, pouring eggs into the heated pan. “You love it.”
“I do.” It’s true. Despite the bureaucracy and heartbreak, there’s nothing else I’d rather do.
Skyler slides the spatula under the edges of the eggs, his movements confident and smooth. I watch those architect hands that can sketch a building from nothing, that trace patterns on my skin in the darkness.
I set two plates on our small kitchen table. We found it at a flea market six months after moving in together. Skyler saw potential in the scratched surface and wobbly leg; I saw tetanus. But he restored it over weekends, sanding and staining until it gleamed, proving me wrong in the most beautiful way.
Morning sunlight catches on my engagement ring as I arrange the silverware. The diamond isn’t large—we both chose practicality over flash—but it catches fire in certain light,sending prisms dancing across our walls. Sometimes I catch Skyler watching me watch those light patterns, a small, satisfied smile on his face.
“Earth to Harley.” Skyler waves the spatula. “Where’d you go?”
I shake myself from my thoughts. “Just thinking about how domestic we’ve become. Remember when we ate cereal for dinner three weeks in a row?”
“Dark times.” He slides perfectly cooked eggs onto our plates. “My mother would have had a coronary.”
I laugh, the sound lighter than my thoughts at the mention of Elaine Thompson. “Your mother has opinions about everything, from cereal to centerpieces.”
“True.” His smile tightens almost imperceptibly. “But she means well.”
I don’t argue. Morning light, coffee, and Skyler’s bedhead aren’t things I want tainted by thoughts of his parents’ disapproval.
Instead, I rise on my tiptoes and kiss him, tasting coffee and toothpaste and promises. His hands find my waist, anchoring me against him like I might float away if he lets go.
“What was that for?” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Practice,” I whisper back. “For all those mornings after.”
His smile is the sun breaking through clouds. “I like how you think, almost-Mrs. Thompson.”
The name still sounds strange, but in this moment, I think I could get used to it.
I pack our lunches while Skyler adds pepper to his eggs. Muscle memory guides my hands. Turkey and provolone for him, hummus and veggies for me.
“Don’t forget the mustard this time,” Skyler says. “I had a very dry sandwich yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to use the cafeteria condiments like a normal person.” I squeeze mustard onto his breadwith exaggerated drama. “God forbid you touch a communal dispenser.”
“Have you seen those things? Petri dishes with pumps.” He shudders dramatically, then winks.
The rain pattering against our kitchen window reminds me of another rainstorm three years ago. The café on Maple Street . . . the day everything changed.
I was drenched, my umbrella having surrendered to Chicago’s wind two blocks back. Water dripped from my hair onto the counter as I ordered the largest coffee possible. The café was packed with others seeking shelter from the downpour.
There was only one table with a single occupant—a man hunched over papers spread carefully across the surface. Dark hair fell across his forehead as he sketched something with intense focus. I hesitated, then approached.
“Mind if I sit here? It’s either join you or stand in the corner like a wet potted plant.”
He looked up, hazel eyes registering surprise, then amusement. “Be my guest. Though fair warning, these are work drawings.”
I set my coffee down carefully. “I promise to keep my liquids to myself.”
The universe heard my lie and decided to punish me immediately. A businessman pushed past, jostling my arm, and my coffee toppled in slow motion. I lunged for it, but physics had other plans.
Brown liquid spread across his papers like a flood.
“Oh my god.” Horror froze me in place. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for whatever these are.”
Instead of the anger I expected, he laughed. Actually laughed. “Well, that’s one way to critique my design.”
