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He makes the first cuts. No hesitation. No struggling. Just clean, professional movements that turn the onion into perfect, identical pieces.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
His lips twitch. “You like it.”
More than I should. There’s something magnetic about watching him work, about seeing confidence replace doubt with each slice, each motion.
“Want to help?” He glances up, that spark I’ve missed dancing in his eyes.
“Absolutely not. I’m here for moral support only.”
“Didn’t you want a cooking lesson?”
“Changed my mind.” I swing my legs, keeping well away from his workspace. “I will sit here, look pretty, and occasionally say encouraging things.”
He lets out a snort, his hand grazing my knee as he heads to the stove, and the touch feels like a confession. He wants me here.
“First rule of pasta.” He places a pot of water on the stove. “Always start with the water. Takes longer than you think to come to a proper boil.” He opens the industrial fridge, pulling out butter, heavy cream, and fresh parmesan. The pancetta comes out next, thick-cut pieces. “Elliot always did have good suppliers.”
“Is that approval I hear?”
“Don’t tell him.” A ghost of his old smirk appears. “His ego’s big enough.”
I know someone else who has a big ego.
When the bottle of vodka and tomato paste join the lineup, my breath catches. “Are you?—”
“Making the pasta that got you to play beer pong with me?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I won most of those games.”
“And somehow, I still felt like the winner.” He reaches back into the fridge, pulling out vegetables, red peppers, mushrooms, and broccoli. “Though I’m making some adjustments to the original.”
“Three days,” I say softly. “You spent three days experimenting in college.”
“You remember?”
“Of course. B and I were addicted to it.” It was the only food I was able to keep down. Other than salad or raw vegetables.
“You mean you were addicted to me?”
I roll my eyes. “I was addicted to your cooking.”
“Keep telling yourself that, cupcake.” He starts chopping the vegetables. “You used to hang around my apartment kitchen for hours.”
“Because you kept feeding me.”
“Because I wanted you there. Any time I got you there felt like I won the lottery.” He tosses the vegetables in a pan, and the sizzle breaks the tension. “Still do.”
Garlic hits hot butter, and the kitchen fills with a promise. He moves between pots with growing confidence, showing more of the Brandon I remember, the one who found his peace in the creation of something beautiful. The one who lived for this.
“Taste this.” He holds out a spoon, his other hand cupped underneath to catch any drips.
I lean forward, letting him feed me the sauce. The flavors burst across my tongue. Rich, creamy, with just enough vodka togive it depth without overwhelming. It tastes like college nights and stolen glances, like my Brandon.
“Good?”
“You know it is.” My eyes flick to his hands. “Your hands don’t shake.”