With another kiss, he was gone.
Cooking had always been something I’d enjoyed, but somewhere along the line, cooking fancy food for clients while subsisting on ramen had taken the joy out of it. But here in this kitchen, I was able to find a sense of ownership again. Even if I reminded myself for the zillionth time that this was not real and would end in a few more months. Something about cooking in this kitchen felt right.
And for a moment, I let myself sink into it, into the warmth, into the steadiness, into the quiet truth that whatever this started as, it no longer feels temporary.
While Raph was taking his last call, I decided to try something I hadn’t attempted in a long time. The eggs had been whisked, the cheese carefully folded in, and the oven preheated to the exact temperature.
And I was softly humming, La Vie en Rose.
It was impossible not to when you’re attempting a soufflé. It felt like culinary law. You could not whisk egg whites to stiff peaks without at least pretending you’re in a tiny Parisian kitchen.
I swayed slightly as I moved between the counter and stove, wooden spoon tapping lightly against the bowl. The early evening light filtered in through the windows, warm and honeyed.
I was happy.
I hummed the next line under my breath as I slid the ramekins onto a tray.
The air behind me shifted. I assumed it was him, finished with his work and drawn by the smell. But there was something different in it.
I glanced over my shoulder. He was standing just inside the kitchen, jaw set, shoulders squared.
“Stop,” he said.
The word landed flat.
I blinked. “Stop what?” I was confused. I wasn’t sure what was behind the anger written on his face.
“Humming that.”
I stared at him, spoon still in my hand.
“Humming?”
“Yes.”
I searched his face for context and found none. His expression was controlled, but there was a tension there I didn’t recognize.
“It’s just a song,” I said lightly.
“Do not hum it.”
There was no explanation. Just a boundary drawn suddenly in the middle of my kitchen.
It was odd. Strange enough that I wanted to ask why. Strange enough that I noticed the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides.
But I didn’t push. He was still the Beast, after all. There were rooms in that here I hadn’t been allowed to enter yet.
So I let it go. I turned back to the oven, slid the tray inside carefully, and closed the door. The kitchen fell quiet. Except for whatever it was he’s not saying.
The next night at derby,I decided I was done compartmentalizing. I was tired of carrying different versions of my life in different rooms. The familiar noise of wheels on polished wood echoed around us as practice wound down. I wasstill off skates, brace back on for stability, clipboard in hand like I’m useful.
Mel plopped down beside me on the bleachers first, water bottle in hand.
“You’ve got that look,” she said.
“What look?”
“The one where you’re about to confess something.”
