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Lil’s already at the oven, peeking inside. “It should be done. Just need to let it cool for a bit.” She straightens, grabbing a pair of oven mitts.
I prop myself against the counter, watching her work. There’s something oddly domestic about it. Her, puttering around my kitchen like she belongs here. Like this is normal for us.
It’s not. It’s so far from normal it’s laughable. But I can’t deny that I like it. Like seeing her in my space, surrounded by my things.
She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shrug, crossing my arms.
“Set the table, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a mock salute before pushing off the counter to do as she asks.
This is temporary. She’s only here because she doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Once she gets back on her feet, she’ll be gone again.
And I’ll be left alone with my regrets and what-ifs.
So, I have to do whatever it takes.
The oven timer dings, and Lil slips on the mitts, carefully extracting the lasagna and setting it on the stovetop. The cheesy crust is bubbling and golden brown, steam wafting up in curling tendrils.
“Smells good,” I come to stand beside her. “I’m impressed.”
She cuts me a sidelong glance. “It’s lasagna. Anyone can layer some noodles and cheese.”
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. I’ve had some pretty shitty lasagna in my day.” I bump her hip with mine. “This looks top-notch.”
“Flatterer.” But she’s smiling now, a real smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
I like that smile. I want to be the reason for it every day. Dangerous thought. “I’ll finish setting the table.”
“Okay. I’ll dish us up.”
We move around each other in the kitchen, a strange sort of dance. She hands me a trivet for the center of the table, our fingers brushing. I pour us each a glass of water, my arm grazing her back as I reach past her for the fridge.
Each touch, each glance feels weighted. Meaningful. Like we’re both hyperaware of the other’s presence, of the electric charge humming between us.
By the time we sit down to eat, my nerves are strung tight as a bowstring. I take a large gulp of water, trying to ease the sudden dryness in my mouth.
Lil scoops a generous portion of lasagna onto each of our plates before settling into the chair across from me. “Dig in.” She nods at my plate.
I oblige, cutting off a corner and popping it into my mouth. Rich tomato, creamy sauce, and a slight bite of garlic. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“Yeah?”
“Best lasagna I’ve ever had. Hands down.” I go in for another bite.
“You don’t have to lie. I know that Brandon is probably doing a better one.”
“Well, I like yours more,” I say. “You’ll have to make this for me again sometime.”
Her brow furrows, and I realize my mistake too late. Mentioning a future, a next time. Like this is something we’ll do again. Like she’ll stick around long enough for there to be a next time.
Fuck.
“I mean—”
“It’s fine. I’d like that.”