“I still say we should get street tacos.”

Ryan shakes his head you’re ridiculous as he locks the front door. He kicks off his shoes and tosses his keys on the dining table. “I’m cooking.”

I slide out of my sandals. Set my messenger bag on the floor. “What if I want street tacos?”

“When’s the last time you ate a home cooked meal?”

“You made me breakfast.”

“That I didn’t make you?”

Uh… It’s been awhile. “I don’t cook.”

“Exactly.” He slides his backpack off his shoulders, sets it on the plain black dining chair. “I want to know you’re eating food.”

My chest gets light. He’s insisting on feeding me. It’s some deep seated, primal love.

I argue anyway. “Tacos are food.”

He makes that get real sound.

“They’re a balanced meal. Meat, bread, vegetables.”

“Vegetables?” He moves into the kitchen. “Really?”

“Avocados.”

“Are a fruit.”

“Salsa.”

“Tomatoes too.”

“Onions.”

His eyes light up as he chuckles. “Whatever you want to believe, Leigh.” He grabs a pan, sets it on the stove, turns the burner on. “Come here.” His voice drops to this demanding tone. One I never hear.

My sex clenches. “Oh?”

“I’m gonna teach you how to make stir fry.”

“I’d rather you make it for me.”

“Me too.” He coats the pan with oil. “But we’re not gonna be able to do this forever.”

“We’re not?”

His eyes tinge with disappointment as he turns back to me. “Don’t make me bring him up.”

“Who?”

He shoots me a really look.

Oh. He means Mr. Powers. Because he still doesn’t know I’m actually head over heels for him. “Why would that matter?”

“Let’s not do this again.”

“Yeah, but…” I bite my lip. I want Ryan to know. But only if he wants me back. Only if he wants more.

If he doesn’t…

There’s too much risk of losing him forever.

I follow him into the kitchen. “I don’t see why you can’t cook me dinner if I ever decide I’m dating again.”

“'Cause it’s fucked.”

“How?”

“'Cause it is.” He points to the fridge. “Get out the chicken breast.”

“Do we have to use chicken breast?”

He arches a brow.

“It’s slimy and weird.”

“You like eating it.”

“Thus proving my point about how it’s better if you cook. You love cooking. I love eating. It’s a perfect arrangement.”

He shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“I’d never let some guy cook for my girlfriend.”

“You’re not some guy.”

“I’m your best friend. It’s worse.” He taps the fridge with his sock-clad toes.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“We can use shrimp.”

“Yes please.”

“It’s fussier.”

“I’m used to dealing with you. I can handle it.”

His chuckle wipes away that last hint of frustration. His eyes brighten. His posture softens. He turns toward me, inviting me into…

Into something. I’m not sure.

I press my lips together. “Where’s the shrimp?”

“Freezer.”

I reach into said freezer, find the package on the top shelf, next to a dozen packages of frozen spinach. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You get to be my age, you have to watch what you eat.”

My laugh dissolves the last hint of tension in my shoulders. Playful Ryan is a rare treat. And he’s all mine.

He’s happy.

“You’re right. That was insensitive of me.” I set the package on the counter between us. “Forgive me?”

“If you ditch the sass.”

“Not sure I can promise that.”

His smile spreads over his cheeks. “Don’t I know it.” He brushes a wavy strand from his eyes. “What do you want in this?”

“Whatever is the easiest.”

“Carrots and broccoli are hard to overcook.”

“Perfect.”

He motions to the fridge. “Bottom drawer on the right.”

“I know.” I pull the door, crouch, dig through said drawer. I look up at Ryan as I hand over a bunch of carrots and a head of broccoli.

He looks down at me with a lazy smile.

The same as this morning.

The same affection.

The same intimacy.

The same easiness.

My head spins as I rise to my feet. But it’s not my head. It’s the world tilting on its axis.

There’s a chance he’ll be mine.

It didn’t seem possible before, but now it’s clear as day.

His eyes bore into mine. “You okay, Leigh?”

“Tired. I sat too much. I should have gone for a run.” Or we could go to your room and get our hearts pumping the fun way.

“Not too late.”

“I don’t have my stuff.” My cheeks flush as my eyes meet his. A giggle rises up in my throat. I try to distract myself by grabbing the cutting board, but I’m a nervous school girl. All thumbs.

“Maybe I should lead.”

“Good idea.”

“Hang back and watch.”

I nod sure.

Ryan fills a small pot with water. “Easiest way to cook frozen shrimp is by boiling.” He sets the pot on the stove, turns the burner to high. “You want to cook them until they’re a light pink.”

“How light?”

“Like a flamingo.”

This could be our life—the two of us making dinner together, relaxing in our apartment, fucking in our bed “They eat shrimp, right?”

“That gives them the color, yeah.”

“Oh. Duh.” I trip over my tongue. “We… uh… we need rice, right?”

“Yeah. You need a play-by-play for that?”

My cheeks flush. He’s teasing me. I feel it everywhere. “No. I know that much.” I find the rice in the pantry, scoop a cup into the rice maker, add two cups of water. “I used to cook for my mom.”

His voice softens. “Yeah?”

“Well, cook isn’t the right word. I’d make her TV dinners. Or sandwiches. I got about as far as mac and cheese. But not the stovetop kind. The microwavable kind.”

“You still fed her.”

“I guess.”

“Don’t guess. You did.” His eyes meet mine. “You were a kid. You weren’t responsible for taking care of her.”

“It felt like it. It has since I realized how out of it she was.”

“But it wasn’t.”

I bite my tongue. “I didn’t do a great job. We ate like shit.”

“That why you love junk food?”

“No.” I press my ass against the counter. “I hate junk food. It tastes like wondering why my mom wasn’t there. I guess that doesn’t make sense.”

He shakes his head it does. “Still can’t eat penne arrabiata without thinking of Penny.”

“Penny making penne. That’s—”

“It’s Penelope now.”

“Of course it is.”

He chuckles. “That’s what I thought.”

“Did you eat it together a lot, or…”

“It was the dish she always wanted to perfect.”

“She was the cook?”

He nods.

“Oh. Is that… is there some sort of I don’t need you anymore to you learning to cook.”

“Maybe.” He stirs the shrimp. “It was more a distraction at first.”

I nod.

“I gotta eat.”

“You didn’t for a while. I thought you were gonna disappear.”

“Me too.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

His eyes fill with something I can’t place.

“I, uh, I’ve never had that problem. Of not eating when I’m miserable. If I did—”

“I don’t want to hear any more shit about how you aren’t a solid ten, Leigh. You know you’re hot.”

“But not thin.”

“Your body is perfect.”

I dig my fingers into the counter. Between the matter-of-fact tone of his voice and the freefall of discussing my mom…

This is weird.

I try to find something solid to grab onto. “I’ve always liked to eat. But I hate preparing stuff too. So I…”

“Eat nothing but street tacos?”

“Eat at restaurants a lot, yeah.” I bite my tongue. “I’m sorry, we—”

“Don’t apologize for sharing shit with me.”

“We were having a nice conversation.”

His eyes bore into mine. “We still are.”

“Oh.” The intensity of his gaze makes my knees knock together. There’s a possibility of me and Ryan. That changes everything. “What about you? Your parents cook?”

“The maid.”

“You were that rich?” I swallow hard. “Never mind, I saw your house.”

He nods. “They both worked too much.”

“You love them?”

“Of course. They’re assholes sometimes, but they mean well.”

“I’m not sure you’ve ever admitted that.”

“It’s between us.”

“Of course. My, uh, my hair this morning is between us too.”

“It looked good.”

I shake my head. “It was a mess. It’s still a mess. And it’s practically platinum.”

He gives me a long, slow once over. “Looks good on you.”

“Oh. Thanks. But I… uh… I prefer the lavender. Platinum is kinda trashy.”

“Looks punk rock on you.” He brushes a hair behind my ear. “Guess I should be used to that by now, Punk Rock Princess.”

My blush spreads to my chest. “You, uh… what kind of stir fry are we making?”

“Craving anything?”

You. “Ginger. Like last night.”

He nods to the fruit bowl. “Grab it for me.”

I do.

He shows me how to peel the ginger with a paring knife. How to grate it into tiny pieces and warm it with the oil.

How to chop carrots and broccoli and set the pan at just high enough to cook without burning.

How to test the shrimp is done, drain it, add it to the pan.

We add rice vinegar, garlic, fish sauce, sesame oil, scallions.

I don’t hate it.

Not even close.

Then we bring the plates to the table, and we taste our perfectly imperfect dish, and I fall completely in love.

With cooking.

And with Ryan too.