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He glances down at them, as if just noticing. “Yeah. They don’t.”
“Because this is where you belong.”
Brandon doesn’t tense up like I expect. Instead, his shoulders relax further as he stirs the sauce.
“Done.” He steps back, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, his face flushed from the heat, but his eyes are clear. Present.
He plates the penne, pouring the vodka sauce over them, steam rising with an aroma that makes my mouth water. The pancetta pieces nestle throughout, promising bursts of salt and crunch. He adds the vegetables in a careful arrangement, then finishes with fresh basil and a light dusting of parmesan.
It’s nothing like the basic vodka sauce he made in college. That was delicious but simple. This is art.
Something made with care. With love.
My stomach doesn’t clench at the sight. Instead, it growls softly.
Brandon’s head snaps up. “Was that?—”
“Shut up.” I cross my arms.
“You’re actually hungry.” He slides the plate toward me, then grabs a fork from a nearby drawer. “Your turn.”
I twirl a small amount of noodles, the sauce clinging to them and coating my tongue as I take the first bite.
So good. He made it even better, and there’s something else, something new in the blend of vegetables he’s added.
“Well?”
I take another bite instead of answering. Then another. Each forkful feels like stepping back in time, but also moving forward. Like finding something I thought was lost.
“The mushrooms are delicious.” I scrape the fork against the plate, gathering more sauce. “And the red peppers give it more depth.”
“You can taste the difference?”
Yeah. It’s love. I nod. Because it’s not just the food that’s different. It’s him. It’s us. It’s the way he’s looking at me, like cooking for me means more than just keeping a promise.
“The kitchen suits you,” I say finally. “You look… whole again.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes the fork, stealing a bite from my plate. “Maybe dreams aren’t just dreams.”
“You miss it.” Not a question.
“Yeah.” He won’t meet my eyes.
“Then why did you sell it?”
“I wanted to be better.”
“Better?”
“I thought…” He grabs a dish towel, twisting it between his hands. “I thought if I gave it up, chose the path Dad wanted, maybe I’d finally be worth staying for.”
Something tightens in my chest. He thought he had to change for someone to stay. He thought being himself wasn’t enough.
And I let him believe that.
I really fucked up.
My stomach twists. Because the truth is, I’ve spent so long convincing myself I wasn’t good enough for him. That he deserved someone more put together, less messy. But that was never the problem, was it?