Choosing me back.
The elevator ride upis quiet in the easiest way. Ollie leans back against the wall, grocery bags looped over both forearms like they weigh nothing. I’ve got the heavier one because I insisted, even though he gave me a look that said I was being ridiculous.
“You’re going to strain something,” he mutters.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are. That bread alone weighs more than your guitar.”
“It’s artisanal,” I argue. “Respect it.”
He snorts, and the sound follows us out into the hallway when the doors slide open.
Inside the loft, warmth hits first. Not temperature—atmosphere. The place feels lived-in now. My boots by the door. His hoodie slung over the back of a chair. A second toothbrush in the bathroom. It doesn’t feel like I’m visiting anymore.
We unpack slowly, bumping hips in front of the counter.
“You bought the good rice,” he says, inspecting the bag.
“Of course I did.”
He glances up. “You remember how to make it?”
I press a hand to my chest. “That’s offensive.”
He smiles, soft and crooked. “I’m just checking.”
“My mamá would kick my ass if I forgot.”
That earns me a different look. Warmer. He knows what that means. He’s met her. He’s stood in her kitchen. He’s been folded into that world in a way that still makes my pulse race when I think about it.
“What are we making exactly?” he asks.
“Chicken tinga and arroz rojo,” I say. “With pollo en crema. And I’m doing proper salsa. Not that jarred nonsense you pretend is acceptable.”
“I do not pretend that.”
“You bought it last week.”
“It was on sale.”
I shake my head in exaggerated disappointment and reach for the cutting board.
The rhythm comes back easily. Oil warming in the pan. The smell of garlic and onion blooming in heat. Rice toasting until it shifts from pale to golden. I let Ollie stir while I blend tomatoes, onion, garlic, and a serrano with enough lime to make it bright but not punishing.
He watches my hands when I move, like he’s cataloging it.
“You look very confident,” he says.
“I am confident.”
“You’re bossy.”
“My mamá will be pleased.”
He laughs, and I glance at him just in time to see the blush creep up his neck again when I wink.
He washes the cilantro, shakes it out too aggressively, and splatters water across the counter.
