I grabbed plates and followed her to the small table near the window. The twinkle lights Lydia had hung reflected off the glass, turning the room a soft gold. It felt like stepping into some Christmas card I didn’t deserve to be in.
She set the bowl down and sat across from me, tucking her legs under the chair, the corner of her mouth still curved in amusement.
“Well?” she asked, twirling her fork. “Moment of truth. The pasta might be cold now, but at least I didn’t burn it.”
I took a bite, mostly just to humor her, and made a show of considering.
“Verdict?” she prompted.
I met her gaze and smiled slowly. “Perfect.”
“The pasta?”
“The night.”
She groaned. “There it is. The line.”
“What?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“The one where you ruin a perfectly normal sentence by making it sound like a movie trailer.”
“Not my fault you bring out the poetic side of me,” I said.
She pointed her fork at me. “That’s it…you’re washing dishes.”
“Fine by me,” I said, leaning back in my chair, grinning. “As long as you promise not to ban me from your kitchen again.”
“We’ll see how the dishes survive,” she said, shaking her head, but she was smiling now. Really smiling.
And damn, that was a sight worth every burned garlic bread, every sarcastic jab, every cold shoulder she’d thrown my way.
Because that smile, the one she gave when she forgot to guard herself, was the kind of thing that could keep a man warm all winter.
She caught me staring and arched a brow. “You’re staring again.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Yes.”
“Won’t stop me.”
She laughed, and the sound filled the small space like a spark catching.
Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing the world in silence. Inside, the air still hummed with the echo of that kiss.
I didn’t know what tomorrow would look like…whether she’d wake up and regret it or pretend it hadn’t meant anything. But sitting there across from her, watching the light dance in her hair and her cheeks pink from laughter, I knew one thing for sure.
We ate like we were trying to pretend the world hadn’t just tilted. Forks moving, glasses clinking, the storm pressing its palm to the window. The flirty jabs kept sputtering up, with her calling me impossible and me turning it into praise, but each one landed softer, then softer still, like a fire easing back to embers.
The pasta was good. Comforting. I told her so.
She said, “Told you,” but her smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes.
I knew that look. The one that crept in after we’d laughed too loud or stood too close. The second-guessing look. Thewhat did we just dolook. It slid over her face now, almost apologetic, and my chest tightened like someone had hooked a line through my ribs and yanked.
I reached for the wine and stood, needing motion. “Top-off?”
She hesitated, then nudged her glass toward me. I poured, listening to the soft ribbon of red, buying myself a few more seconds before I had to do the thing I knew would make or break the rest of the night—ask the question out loud.
