He pulls out a vase and sets it in front of me.
“Thank you.” I carry it to the sink to fill it with water. I pick up the bouquet, hesitate, then glance back at him. “I have no idea what to do with these.”
He laughs softly. “I can take care of them, if you’d like.”
“That would be great,” I tell him, handing them over.
He opens a drawer, pulls out a pair of scissors, and gets to work. Sometimes I forget how familiar he is with this home, how easily he moves through my kitchen, but instead of unsettling me, it makes everything feel easier.
I turn my attention to dinner. I start chopping an onion, a bell pepper, and fresh garlic, letting the familiar routine settle my nerves.
“Would you like some music?” he asks, taking his phone from his pocket.
“Sure.”
I’m expecting something mellow, maybe acoustic, but when the first notes fill the room, I freeze mid-chop.
Luis Miguel.
I look up at him, stunned. He’s already set his phone down and gone back to trimming stems, completely unfazed.
“What?” he asks when he notices me staring.
“I just…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know, I thought you’d be more of a Jack Johnson, Dave Matthews kind of guy,” I admit
“Oh, I am,” he laughs. “But this is what my mom used to play on quiet nights when we stayed in. It just felt right.”
I nod and turn back to the cutting board, blinking a little faster than necessary.
Because this exact music is what my mom played while she cooked dinner after long shifts at the hospital, the sound filled our kitchen the same way it’s filling mine now, warm and familiar and impossible to explain out loud.
So I keep chopping, let the music play, and allow the moment to exist without trying to name it.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this comfortable with anyone else in a kitchen.
When Mom cooked, I liked to help. She gave me precise, step-by-step instructions, and I followed them carefully, wanting to do it right. With my sisters, it was always chaos. Somewhere along the way, we learned that if one of us was cooking, the other two needed to stay out of the kitchen if we wanted the meal to get finished without arguing. We all have our own way of doing things, and none of us is particularly good at compromising when it comes to food.
With Aiden, though, it’s different.
While he worked on the flowers earlier, I chopped vegetables and started the sauce. When it was time to open the tomato cans, he was already there, handing me the can opener without a word. When I rolled the meatballs, he filled a pot with water, salted it just right, and set it on the stove to boil. As the sauce simmered and I grated Parmesan, he set the table, placed the flowers in the center, and lit a candle.
He never got in my way. Never hovered. He simply paid attention.
The rhythm between us feels unspoken, like we both know when to step forward and when to step back. It’s easy. Comfortable. Quiet teamwork that doesn’t need commentary.
Conversation flows just as naturally.
We sit across from each other at my small table, talking as we eat, the food disappearing between stories. I tell him about my sisters. He tells me he’s an only child. I talk about growing up in Great Lakes; he tells me he’s lived in Depoe Bay most of his life. He shares how his uncle has been more like a father to him, and how caring for him now feels less like a responsibility and more like a privilege.
Somewhere between bites, I learn his mom was Colombian, that he’s fluent in Spanish, and that she used to call him Adrián whenever he was in trouble. The way he says it fondly, and a little amused, sticks with me.
Aiden is, in every possible way, the boy next door every woman hopes to meet. Being with him doesn’t feel like effort. It feels like exhaling.
When I stand to carry our plates to the sink, he follows, glasses in hand.
