He stares out into the kitchen for a moment, lost in thought, then takes a long, slow sip of coffee. “I enjoy the work,” he starts. I sit silently and wait, getting the feeling he has more to say. “I like being alone too.” Sip. Stare. “Keeping people safe.”
“Good reasons,” I respond. The way his foot is bouncing on the floor and his brows are knit together, I get the sense there’s more to the story. More that he might not be ready to share with me yet. That’s okay, I won’t push him.
We sit together in comfortable silence, our hands placed at our sides on the couch. Not touching, but close enough. I can feel the heat radiating off him, and I open and close my hand a few times to stop myself from reaching over and grabbing his.
Friends, remember.
“I tried to call you,” I say after a few minutes.
“Yeah?” he asks curiously.
“It said,number not in service. I forgot the paper you gave me, so you’ll have to write it down again for me.”
“Of course.”
We finish our coffees, and when I place the empty cup in front of me on the coffee table, he stands up, grabs both cups, and walks over to the kitchen to wash them.
“Want some help?” I ask, getting up and walking over.
“Not with this, but if you give me a minute, we can make the pumpkin creamer. I’m going to run out, anyway. I tried some in my coffee this week?—”
“Amazing, right?” I beam.
“I was going to say not bad, butamazingworks too.” He grins before turning back to the sink.
“Wait ’til you try even more flavours. It’s fun to get seasonal with them,” I say, dreaming up all the fun fall and Christmas flavours we could make.
We.
We’ve only just become friends, and already I’m making future plans. It’s a feeling I’m not used to, but there’s something about him that tells me he could be around in a few months’ time.
He gets everything set up for us in the compact kitchen. Dylan walks over to the fridge and pulls out a mason jar with whipping cream and a glass ziplock container filled with pumpkin puree. “Leftovers from when I first made it,” he says as he grabs vanilla extract from the fridge door. Then he opens a cabinet and pulls out a package of pumpkin spice and a jar of cinnamon. Finally, he pulls out a very dated-looking can of sweetened condensed milk.
“Is that from, like, fifty years ago?” I ask, my eyebrow cockedslightly.
He scratches his temple as he answers. “No? Bought it last week.”
I wonder where he shops. I guess retro packaging is making a comeback.
“Okay, you’re on pouring duty,” he instructs me. A glass measuring cup is placed in my hand, and he tells me to measure out one cup of cream, half a cup of condensed milk, and three spoonfuls of pumpkin puree into a pot on the stove. “Let it heat slowly, and keep stirring it.”
I pour everything out, only making a tiny mess when the cream comes out faster than I expected. My shoulders rise in anticipation of him getting annoyed with me, but he only stands beside me and wipes up the mess with a damp cloth. I begin mixing it, listening to the sound of the spoon scraping the metal pot. Before I know what’s happening, his hand comes down over mine, holding it and the spoon, slowing me down.
“Oh,” I gasp, startled by the feeling of his skin on mine.
“You’re stirring too fast,” he says quietly in my ear, his voice gruff and deep. “You’ve got to slow down.”
“S-sorry,” I stammer, lost in the warmth of his body, so close to mine once again.
“S’okay.” He moves his hand away and starts measuring out the spices. “We’re going to add a teaspoon of pumpkin spice, a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon, and a teaspoon of vanilla.” He tosses it all in as I keep stirring, the liquid heating up and the incredible aroma taking over the small kitchen.
After a few more minutes, he leans over me, the scent of his soap wrapping me in a hug, and turns off the element. “Now we let it sit and cool before we put it in the fridge.”
I clap my hands and brush them off on mylegs, overjoyed. “That was easier than I thought! Where’d you find that recipe?”
He shrugs. “I made it up.” His cheeks redden at the declaration.
I walk over to the sink to rinse out the can the condensed milk was in, when a date on the side catches my eye.
