“Move,” he said, nudging me with his hip.
“You move. I was here first.”
“I’m trying to flip the French toast before it burns.”
“And I’m trying to get the plates.”
We did an awkward dance around each other, laughing, until finally the French toast was plated and the “Canadian” bacon was lightly browned to perfection.
At the table, we settled across from each other with our plates loaded. Under the table, our feet found each other, his socked foot sliding against mine.
The French toast was perfect—crispy on the outside, custardy inside, with the rich maple syrup Étienne had insisted on. The bacon, despite its questionable nomenclature, was a deliciously salty complement.
“Okay,” I admitted. “The real maple syrup is better.”
“Told you.” He looked smug. “Quebec knows what it’s doing.”
“And the fake Canadian bacon?”
“Still American. Delicious. But American.”
Our feet stayed tangled together while we ate, the quiet morning intimacy settling over us like a comfortable blanket. This was what I wanted. Not just the big moments—the passion, the declarations—but the playful arguments about bacon, the casual touches that saidI’m here, you’re here, we’re together.
“What?” Étienne asked, catching me staring.
“Nothing. Just… this is nice.”
“Yeah.” His foot pressed against mine. “It is.”
When Étienne got home from practice that afternoon, he dumped his duffel by the door and headed straight to the kitchen bar, where I was texting my personal trainer about our schedule for the week.
“Okay,” he said. “Turnabout is fair play. You suffered through my maple syrup tutorial. Now I want to learn how to make noodles. The real stuff, not just dry spaghetti in a box.”
“You want to make pasta?”
“I want to make whatever you’ll teach me.” He startedrolling up his sleeves. “Your family’s recipes. The ones that matter.”
My gut tightened. He understood—this wasn’t just about learning to cook. This was about learning a piece of me.
“Fresh pasta.” We washed our hands, and I gathered ingredients from the pantry. “It’s where everything starts. Flour, eggs, olive oil, salt.” I arranged them on the counter with the precision my nonna had taught me. “Four ingredients. That’s it.”
“That’s all?” He looked skeptical. “Seems too simple.”
“It’s simple ingredients. Everything else is technique.” I measured flour onto the counter, creating a well in the center. “Watch.”
I cracked eggs into the well, added a drizzle of olive oil and pinch of salt, then started incorporating flour with a fork. Étienne watched intently, asking questions, taking mental notes like he was studying game tape.
When it was his turn, he dove in with characteristic enthusiasm, getting flour everywhere—the counter, his shirt, somehow in his hair.
“How did you get flour in your hair?” I asked.
“I’m a hands-on learner.” He grinned at me, completely unbothered by the mess. “I never had family like yours to teach me how to cook. Is this right?”
His confession was so casual, but it tugged at my heart. “You have me now.” I moved behind him, putting my hands over his to guide the motion. “Like this. Gentle. You’re not fighting it, you’re coaxing it.”
“Coaxing.” His voice had dropped lower. “Got it.”
We worked the dough together, my hands over his, until it came together into a smooth ball. Then I showed him how to knead it, how to feel when it was ready, how to let it rest.
