"Are you asking me to cook for you?"
"I'm asking if you'd let me buy ingredients and... maybe you could show me what actual food tastes like again."
The request hangs between us, more vulnerable than I meant it to be. I've spent weeks eating tasteless meals, but that's not really what this is about. It's about the way her kitchen felt—warm, lived-in, real. It's about wanting to be somewhere that isn't the sterile inn room or the controlled environment of the newspaper office.
"Alright." Her voice carries a note of surprise, as if she's caught herself off guard by agreeing.
"Really?"
"Don't look so shocked. I happen to enjoy cooking for someone who appreciates it."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by nervous energy. "What do you need? I can stop by the market?—"
"I have everything we need." She turns toward the residential district, her pace measured. "Come on."
Her cottage sits tucked between two larger homes, its timber frame painted deep green with cream trim. Flowering vines climb the front wall, and warm light spills from windows framed by wooden shutters. It's quintessentially Harvest Hollow—picturesque, welcoming, perfectly maintained.
Inside, the space feels as small as I remember. The main room combines kitchen and sitting area, with a stone hearth dominating one wall and copper pots hanging from hooks above a well-used wooden counter. Everything speaks of careful curation—books stacked precisely, cushions arranged just so, not a single item out of place.
"Make yourself comfortable." She gestures toward a pair of chairs near the fireplace.
But comfortable feels impossible in a space this intimate. At the office, there's distance—desks and professional boundaries and the constant possibility of interruption. Here, there's nowhere to retreat.
I perch on the edge of a chair, watching her move through the kitchen with practiced efficiency. She ties an apron around her waist, pulls ingredients from a wooden cabinet, lights the cooking fire with movements that speak of years of routine.
"You can relax, you know." She glances over her shoulder. "I'm not going to poison you."
"Sorry. It's just..." I gesture vaguely at the space around us. "This is different."
"Different how?"
"Personal." The word comes out before I can stop it.
Her hands still for a moment over the cutting board. "Is that a problem?"
"No. It's just... I haven't been in someone's home like this in a long time."
She turns to face me fully, knife forgotten in her hand. "Like what?"
"Like I'm welcome there."
The admission settles between us, heavier than I intended. Her expression softens, something shifting in her dark eyes.
"You are welcome here. And you were welcome last time, too. Nothing's different."
The simple statement hits harder than it should. I've spent months feeling like an outsider everywhere I go—tolerated at best, actively resented at worst. The idea that someone might actually want me in their space feels foreign.
"Thank you."
She holds my gaze for a moment too long, then another moment, and then she’s reaching toward me and pulling me down for a kiss.
The world narrows to the pressure of her mouth against mine, the warmth of her hands gripping my shirt. My hands find her waist almost instinctively, pulling her closer between my legs as I stay seated on the stool. The wooden legs scrape against the floorboards with the force of motion.
“Calla,” I breathe between kisses, the word breaking against her lips. "What are we doing?"
“I don’t know,” she confesses, her voice thick with something I’ve never heard from her before—pure, unfiltered want. “I’ve never… I just…”
I stand, leaning down to capture her mouth again before she can finish the thought. The height difference means she has to tilt her head back, and she does without hesitation, her fingers tangling in my hair.
