He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Dating,” I remind him. “We cook together.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Okay.”
We fall into it easily. Too easily, maybe.
I hand him a knife and a cutting board. He rolls up his sleeves like he’s preparing for a press conference instead of slicing vegetables. There’s something absurdly domestic about it and ridiculously comforting.
He stands beside me at the counter, shoulder brushing mine occasionally. The contact is light and casual. It sends electricity through me anyway.
“You realize,” he says after a few minutes, “this is the most normal thing we’ve done in almost a decade.”
“Normal’s underrated,” I reply.
He snorts softly.
We talk about nothing for a while—his walkthrough, Carol’s design plans, Amelia’s verdict on how “her” bedroom should be decorated—black and green apparently. The kid’s in aWickedphase.
But underneath it all, I’m hyperaware of him.
The way he moves in my space. The way he reaches across me for the salt without thinking. The way his fingers rest on my lower back when he squeezes past.
My body responds like it’s been waiting.
I focus on the onions. “You were shaking in the car,” I say finally.
He stills. “Just adrenaline,” he says. “And… maybe everything catching up.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
He looks at me then. Really looks. “I know,” he says quietly. “That’s the new part.”
I swallow. “Are you scared?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Of screwing this up again. Of the League fallout. Of disappointing people.”
“Of me?”
He exhales slowly through his nose. “Of hurting you.”
That lands deeper than anything else today. I set the knife down. “I’m not made of glass,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “But I broke you once.”
I don’t argue. Because we both know he did. And I let him.
“It’s different this time,” I say instead.
He nods slowly.
The rhythm of cooking resumes. Oil hisses in the pan. The smell of garlic fills the air.
It feels like a beginning disguised as dinner.
“So, retirement,” I say after a while.
“Yes.”
