He folds his arms. “What’s in the bags?”
“Groceries. For dinner.”
“And the box?”
“A laptop I rescued from the recycle pile. Figured Ashley could use it once I wiped and rebuilt it.”
Sean blinks again. “After how horrible I was, you… brought me groceries and a gift for my sister?”
“Technically, yes.”
He stares at me like he’s trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“True.” I set the bag down carefully. “But I’m alsohungry, and I’d really like to make you dinner. Preferably before the ice cream melts.”
That earns a small laugh, the kind that loosens the tension in my chest. He steps back. “Fine. Come in. But if you short-circuit something, I’m docking your dessert.”
“Noted.”
Inside, his apartment smells faintly of coffee and stress. I drop my things on the counter, roll up my sleeves, and start unpacking produce.
“You’re really doing this?” he asks, hovering near the doorway like I might explode. “In my tiny kitchen?”
“I’m really doing this.” I glance at the crooked cabinet hinge I noticed last time I was here. “Also, that’s driving me crazy.” I grab a screwdriver from my bag.
He watches me tighten the screws. “You came here to fix my cabinet?”
“I came here because you looked like you needed someone who doesn’t scare easily.” I straighten my back and push my glasses up. “And because I wanted to cook for you again.”
The air shifts. His shoulders drop a little. “You’re… something else, you know that?”
“I’ve been told,” I say lightly, though my heart’s doing parkour.
Cooking with Sean feels weirdly domestic—like we’ve done it a hundred times. He chops vegetables with the precision of a man still trying to pretend he’s not falling for me. I stir soup like it’s a form of meditation.
When he brushes past me to grab the salt, our armstouch, and the air sizzles along with the vegetables in the pot.
“Greg,” he murmurs, voice low.
“Yes?”
“This is… nice.”
“Nice?” I tease. “That’s your review?”
“Shut up.”
But he’s smiling.
Dinner ends up being a simple vegetable soup, bread, and a salad that somehow tastes better because we kept bumping into each other while making it. We sit next to each other on his small loveseat, knees touching.
He twirls his spoon, pretending to study the soup. “So. After I was so rotten, you really decided to show up and play domestic hero?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why?”
I lean forward, resting my elbow on the end of the sofa. “Because you looked ready to ghost me for good, and I don’t do that. I don’t give up on things. Wi-Fi. Broken hinges. People I care about.”
