“Sure.” I step further into the kitchen and open the refrigerator, pulling out lunch meat, cheese, condiments and bread.
“Sandwich?” she asks.
“Guilty of midnight snacking,” I confess.
“It’s the best kind of snacking.”
A grin tugs at my lips. That same easy rightness wraps us in a familiar cocoon. Only Hallie and I exist. The rest of the world fades softly into the distance. We move around one another comfortably. Hallie stirs the pan of milk and I pull the sandwich ingredients out of their packages.
“Want one?” I ask her.
“I shouldn’t, but yes. I definitely want one.”
“Any special requests?”
I’m standing at the counter that forms an L from the stove. She’s just behind me. If I stepped backward, we’d touch. Every part of me tingles with the awareness of her—the slow sound of the spoon brushing the pot as she stirs, the warmth of her nearness, the soft rhythm of her breath. I lift a slice of cheese and my elbow brushes her shoulder. My skin prickles and hums. I turn to catch her eyes and she looks up at me. And we just stand there, staring at one another, taking our time because we can.
“No special requests,” she says, clearing her throat and turning to click the burner off. “Surprise me.”
I turn back to the cutting board, laying out bread, spreading it with mustard and mayo, then layering the meat, cheese, tomatoes, and lettuce.
“Potato salad? Fruit?”
“It’s midnight, Grey.”
“It’s seven in the morning in Munich,” I lift my eyes to meet hers.
“Well then, you should be making me an omelette.”
“I can.” I raise my brows and wait for her answer.
She smiles. “A sandwich will do.”
I open the fridge, tipping the bowl of fruit salad to slide some onto each of our plates, then I carry them to the table, setting hers at the head and mine at the seat adjacent.
Hallie takes her seat without any hesitation. She sets down two glasses of water.
I take my seat, my knee bumping hers when I tuck my chair in. Her eyes lift and she shifts slightly to her left, putting a small gap between us.
Maybe I should have set us across from one another—using the table as a barrier. But, as complicated as our situation is, I want to be near her.
“Hot cocoa for dessert,” she says.
“I’m good with that.”
I’d be happy with stale crackers and lukewarm water.
She takes a bite of sandwich and hums. “Mmm good.” She wipes her lips with a napkin and says, “Anytime someone cooks for me, it just tastes better.”
“So you’re saying my sandwich is subpar, but you’re eating it with rose-colored glasses?” I tease.
“This sandwich is a Michelin three-star meal as far as I’m concerned.”
“Says the European nomad.”
She blushes. “You remember.”
“All of it.”
