Daryl
Beth walked through the door, surprising me. I straightened up, wiping my hands on a rag.
"You're back," I said, eyeing the bags she carried.
"Of course I'm back," she replied with a hint of a smile. "I left you a note."
She moved past me and headed straight to the kitchen. I followed, curiosity gnawing at me as I watched her unload groceries.
"What're you doing?" My voice sounded gruffer than intended.
"Making breakfast," she said cheerfully, placing eggs and bacon on the counter. "Wanna help?"
I hesitated. "I might screw it up."
"Don't worry about that," she assured me, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Come on."
Reluctantly, I stepped into the kitchen, feeling out of place among the clutter of food and utensils. She began taking more items out of the bags—bread, cheese, tomatoes.
"Here," she said, handing me a loaf of bread. "Start slicing this."
I took the bread and knife, feeling awkward but willing to try. As I sliced, Beth hummed softly, her melody filling the small space and mingling with the sizzle of bacon in the pan. It reminded me of when I'd overheard her singing in the garage; it was unexpected yet soothing.
"What's that song?" I asked before I could stop myself.
She glanced at me, surprised. "Oh, just something I'm working on."
"It's nice," I admitted grudgingly.
"Thanks," she said softly, focusing on her task but with a small smile playing on her lips.
We worked in silence for a few minutes, Beth moving with practiced ease while I fumbled with my task. Despite my clumsiness, there was something oddly comforting about this domestic scene. It was so different from the usual solitude of my mornings.
"You really don't cook much, do you?" she asked after a while.
"Nope," I replied shortly.
"We'll have to change that," she said lightly.
Her optimism both irritated and intrigued me. I couldn't remember the last time someone had been so insistent on being around me.
Beth handed me some cheese to grate as she began arranging sliced tomatoes on a plate. The simple act of working together felt strange yet familiar in an odd way—like something I'd missed without realizing it.
"You know," she said casually, "Christmas isn't so bad when you have good company."
I grunted noncommittally but couldn't help wondering if maybe—just maybe—she had a point.
She glanced at my uneven slices of bread and laughed. "You know, for a mechanic, you're not half bad at this."
I grunted, unsure if it was a compliment or not. Still, the corner of my mouth twitched up slightly.
She started slicing vegetables with quick, precise movements. I watched her hands, admiring how skillfully she handled the knife. Then, suddenly, she cursed and dropped the tomato.
I blinked in surprise. "I think that's the first time I've heard you say a bad word."
She grimaced, holding her finger. "Sorry about that."
"Here," I said, stepping forward. "Let me help with that."
