Last of the kitchen adventures, unless you want more...
She didn’t hear his truck pull into the driveway. Rain against the window muffled everything, soft percussion on glass, and by the time she heard the hinge creak it was too late. The door was closed but not locked — she hadn’t bothered, hands full, rushing to get the peppers chopped before the onions burned.
“You ever consider locking this?” His voice came quiet and low, steady like it always was. Not scolding, just… present.
She jumped anyway, knife freezing mid-slice. “Jesus Christ.”
“Not quite.” Boots thudded soft against the floor, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t hurrying. He never hurried. “Door was closed. Not locked.”
“That doesn’t mean come in.”
“Doesn’t mean stay out.”
She shook her head, muttered something about boundaries, and went back to the board. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re distracted.” Close now, just behind her shoulder. That voice right in her ear without even trying. “You cut better when you’re focused.”
“You here to eat or critique my technique?”
“Both.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re defensive.” His arm brushed hers when he reached for the spoon, smooth, deliberate. “Onions are already in?”
“Yes. And garlic. And— you’re late.”
“I said I’d be here for dinner. Didn’t say when.”
“You could’ve texted.”
“You could’ve locked the door.”
Her kitchen smelled like home. Onions already soft in the pan, garlic just starting to brown, bell peppers waiting their turn. Steam curled up toward the ceiling, mixing with the rain tapping outside. Her space was smaller than his, warmer, older — everything mismatched and a little worn, but hers in every way that mattered.
He looked around like he was memorizing it. The dent in the stove. The towel looped through the drawer handle. The spice rack she never bothered to organize. Little pieces of her life laid out in plain sight and somehow more intimate than anything they’d done so far.
“Shoes,” she said suddenly, sliding peppers into the sizzling pan.
He glanced down. “What about them?”
“Off.”
His brow lifted slow. “Excuse me?”
“No boots in my kitchen.”
“Payback?”
“Absolutely.”
He huffed, toeing them off anyway. Socks on linoleum. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
“Liar.”
They moved around each other easily, no map but somehow never colliding. She stirred, he seasoned. He reached for salt, she drained pasta. The last time they cooked together — his pristine kitchen, her chaos everywhere — hung between them like a memory neither dared say out loud.
“You always move this fast when you cook?” he asked, leaning against the counter, watching her work.
“I’m hungry.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“Bossy.”
“Strict.”
She smirked. “You keep saying that like it’s supposed to be attractive.”
“Isn’t it?”
Her heart skipped in her chest before she could stop it. “Maybe.”
The sauce thickened, basil softening into the tomato, steam clouding the window above the sink. He tasted it first, slow and measured, then set the spoon down like it was fact.
“Perfect.”
She snatched the spoon, stole her own taste, and hummed thoughtfully. “Needs more garlic.”
“Doesn’t.”
“Does.”
“Doesn’t.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re wrong.”
“Wanna bet?”
His mouth curved. “What are the stakes?”
“Bragging rights.”
“Boring.” He leaned closer, voice quieter. “If I’m right, you follow my instructions for the rest of dinner.”
“And if I’m right?”
“You still follow my instructions,” he said, calm and certain. “But cocky.”
Her laugh broke out before she could bite it back. “Fine. Try it.”
He did. Took another taste, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing to her nerves. Set the spoon down again. “Perfect.”
“Cocky.”
“Strict,” he corrected, stepping closer. “And you like it.”
She didn’t notice him grab the towel at first. He just… watched her, silent, while she minced parsley down to a fine pile. Watched her shoulders tighten the moment she paused to think. Watched the way she shook herself out of it — like she hated being caught still.
“Don’t,” she said when she finally saw the towel in his hand.
“Trust exercise,” he murmured.
“I didn’t agree to—”
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
There was a beat. Two. Then she obeyed. The towel slipped soft over her face, tied loose but sure. Darkness washed the kitchen out. Everything sharpened. The smell of basil and garlic, the rain outside, his quiet breathing somewhere just behind her.
“Hands on the counter,” he said, voice lower now.
Her palms flattened against laminate, cool and steady. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re overthinking.”
“I like knowing what’s coming.”
“Not tonight.”
He didn’t move right away. Just stood close, heat at her back, letting her find her breath again. His hand settled at the small of her back — steady, grounding — while the other lifted something soft to her lips.
“Open,” he murmured.
Warm bread brushed her mouth, butter melting on her tongue. She bit, chewed slow.
“Better?” he asked.
“Might be.”
“Still rushing?”
“No.”
“Good girl.”
Heat coiled low in her stomach, sharp and sweet. “You say that too much.”
“You like it too much.”
He fed her spoonfuls of sauce after that. One at a time. His voice a steady thread guiding her through it — taste this, guess that, slower. She got most of them right. Basil. Oregano. A hint of cinnamon she almost missed.
Each right answer earned quiet praise. Each hesitation drew a firmer command.
“Slower.”
“Yes, Sir.”
It slipped out before she could stop it.
He stilled. Then leaned close, mouth by her ear. “Say it again.”
Her throat worked. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.”
The words landed like a weight, not heavy but anchoring. When he finally untied the towel, the world hit sharper — light, color, scent all flooding back. He stood close, steady eyes on hers. Quiet. Unyielding.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“Whether this is smart.”
“And?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Want me to help you decide?”
Her voice barely carried. “Maybe.”
Dinner finished itself after that. Pasta tossed with sauce, bread torn by hand. They ate at the counter, shoulders brushing, banter softer now, something warmer threading through it.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said finally.
“What’d you expect?”
“Someone who’d push.”
“I know better.”
“And if I never tell you?”
“I’ll wait"
She didn't know why, but she believed he would.
Dishes were done after — his insistence, her reluctant compliance. They lingered in the kitchen anyway, leaning against opposite counters, rain soft on the windows.
“You always this patient?” she asked.
“Only when it matters.”
“And this… matters?”
“You matter.”
The words hit harder than she wanted them to.
“You’re infuriating,” she whispered.
“You’re stubborn.”
“Bossy.”
“Strict.”
“Impossible.”
“Patient.”
“Annoying.”
“Worth it.”
The silence hummed, fragile and electric.
“Say it again,” she murmured.
“Worth it,” he said softer. “Every layer.”
The kiss didn’t explode. It unfolded like silk. Slow and certain, the kind that tasted like promise more than heat — though heat threaded through it anyway. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, giving her every chance to pull back. She didn’t. She leaned in first.
When they parted, foreheads pressed together, neither spoke for a long moment.
“Still think it’s a bad idea?” he asked quietly.
“Ask me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
They stayed in the kitchen. Not because they had to — but because neither of them wanted to leave.
For the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t feel the need to run.