MIGUEL
The kitchen smells like cilantro and slow-simmering tomatillos, just like when we were growing up. Caleb’s standing at the counter barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, chopping onion with quiet focus, and the sight makes my chest ache.
“Mom would have a fit seeing you in the kitchen barefoot, you know.” Tsking at him.
I’m supposed to be prepping the chicken for the tinga, but mostly I’m watching him. The way he hums under his breath, the way he presses his lips together when he’s trying not to cry from the onions.
“You’re one to talk. I've seen you way too many times barefoot, shirtless with wet hair walking around.” Brandishing the knife and pointing it at me. “So hush!”
He’s still learning how to cook, my mom’s been trying to teach him since before Christmas, but he’s better than he thinks. He always follows directions like a rulebook, measuring everything and double-checking every spice.
“Not so much salt,” I say, nodding toward the shaker.
He glances up, smirking. “You say that every time.”
“And every time, I’m right. You’ve gotta remember that the caldo de pollo or tomate has salt in it.”
He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “You sound like your mom.”
I laugh because it’s true. “And she’s usually right, too.”
He rolls his eyes but keeps stirring, and for a while, it’s easy—quiet music playing from my phone, sunlight sliding through the window, and his shoulder brushing mine every so often as we move around each other.
These are the moments that undo me.
Not the sex. Not the adrenaline or the forbidden thrill of wanting what I shouldn’t.
It’s Caleb, barefoot in my kitchen, looking alive and finally,finallyat peace.
When the tinga’s done, he dips a piece of tostada shell right from the pot, yelping when the sauce burns his tongue. I flick water at him from the sink, and he lunges, laughing, catching my wrist before I can dodge.
“You’re an ass,” he says, but he’s smiling, inching me toward the island.
His hand lingers on mine. The laughter fades. The room goes quiet.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re already halfway in love with me.”
I take a step closer, my voice low. “Halfway? That’s cute.”
He goes still like he’s not sure if he wants to pull me closer or bolt for the door.
Then he lets out a breath, soft and shaky. “You’re impossible.”
I slide my hand around the back of his neck and kiss him.
It’s slow and warm, tasting faintly of spice and steam. One that’s more about being close than getting lost in each other.
When he pulls back, his eyes are glassy. “You always do that.”
“What?”
“Make me forget I’m not supposed to feel like this.”
My thumb traces his jaw. “Maybe you’re supposed to.”
