She stirs the sauce with unnecessary focus, but I can hear her heartbeat accelerating. “I was thinking about how strong your silk was,” she says finally. “How perfectly it held me. How… secure it felt.”
“Secure?” I repeat, intrigued by her word choice.
“Completely immobilized, but somehow I wasn’t afraid.” She finally looks up at me, her eyes dark with something that makes my silk glands ache. “I had never felt anything like that before.”
The scent of the simmering sauce suddenly turns sharp, and June jerks her attention back to the stove, quickly reducing the heat before anything can burn again.
“We should probably focus on the cooking,” she says, her voice slightly unsteady as she stirs the sauce with renewed concentration.
I sense her reluctance to abandon the topic entirely—the way her pulse continues to race, how she keeps stealing glances at me while stirring—but she’s right about the food.
I clear my throat and focus on the sauce bubbling gently on the stove. “How much longer?”
“Just a few more minutes. And the pasta should be done about now. Let’s see…” She moves to the pot of boiling water and lifts a strand of spaghetti with a fork, testing it between her teeth. “Perfect al dente. Can you grab the colander hanging over the sink?”
I retrieve the colander, setting it in the sink as she carefully drains the pasta, steam rising around her like she’s emerging from some culinary fog of war.
“Now the last step,” she says, adding the drained pasta directly to the saucepan. “You toss it all together so every strand gets coated.”
She demonstrates the technique, and I watch her wrists move deftly as she tosses the pasta, the steam carrying the mingled scents of garlic and tomatoes throughout the kitchen. “Now, let’s plate everything and eat.”
She serves generous portions onto two plates, the pasta perfectly glossy with sauce, and I realize this simple meal looks infinitely more appetizing than anything I’ve ever attempted to create.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting my plate. “For saving dinner. And for the lesson.”
“My pleasure,” June replies, and we sit across from each other at the small table in the kitchen nook.
I take my first bite. The flavors are clean and bright, each element distinct but harmonious. Nothing like the raw prey I typically eat.
“This is perfect,” I say. “It tastes…” I struggle to find the words. “Like home?”
June smiles. “It does, doesn’t it?”
We finish the rest of our meal in comfortable silence. When June reaches for her empty plate, I stop her with a gentle touch.
“I’ll clean up,” I say. “You cooked.”
“Are you sure? Because your track record with kitchen tasks tonight is…”
“Catastrophic, yes. But the task of dish-washing is statistically less likely to end in fire.”
“You’d be surprised,” June says with a grin. “But okay. I should probably check in with my dad anyway, let him know I’m settled for the night.”
As she moves to retrieve her phone, I start clearing the table. The simple domesticity of this entire night feels foreign but perfect, an easy intimacy I never expected.
Through the window, I can see the storm is still raging, rain lashing against the glass with renewed fury, and the mudslide that trapped her here feels less like a disaster and more like fate.
It could be several days until the roads are clear.
Several days for us to figure out if this fragile thing between us can survive the transition from fantasy to reality.
I find myself hoping the road crews take their time.
Chapter 9
Lessons in Web Design
June
