i'll accept it if you come to dinner tomorrow
i’ll cook you something real no boxes involved
What dish? If you say pierogi I’ll laugh.
golabki. real food.
Agreed, you've convinced me. Now I'm hungry.
I grin at my screen despite the haze. A second later a photo appears, a selfie Dominik snapped in the car, Zosia in the back seat waving so hard her braids blur. The warmth hits me so fast it makes my eyes sting. For a minute the noise of the clinic fades, replaced by that simple image of them on an ordinary morning.
By lunchtime my phone buzzes again.Rafe.
just woke up.
dreamt you were arguing with me about Lynch again. not sure who won. probably you?
That sounds like me. What’s life like on the glamorous side of insomnia?
the guys are already arguing over something. I’m not even paying attention.
You’re a pretty integral part of 'the guys' too.
You’re talking like you’re outside of it.
feel outside of it. after talking to you. trying to remember how to go back to normal life now.
You’ll manage.
You’ve got thousands of fans to distract you.
that’s not helping.
they don’t rant about diabolical movies.
or sound like you.
I swallow, thumb trembling. I choose the cowards way, I don’t reply. Instead, I shove the phone into my pocket and get back to work. I can’t breathe when he talks to me. I can’t breathe when hestops. It follows me all day, through patients, through charts, through the commute home. Even when my head hits the pillow, even when we both stay in our corners, it’s still there, just under my skin.
Wednesday arrives unremarkably, but something’s missing. The whole day aches with that absence, the kind you can’t name without making it worse. Rafe hasn’t sent anything. I haven’t either. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I check my phone between patients, in the breakroom, in the parking lot before driving home. Nothing.
By mid-afternoon, I tell myself it’s better this way. He has his world stretched across buses and stages and a million strangers waiting to devour whatever part of him he gives. I have mine: this clinic, this city, this small life that’s almost steady. What would we even do withmore?Still, it feels like stopping an addiction cold, the silence aches in my bones. So, I decide to focus on what’s here, on Dominik.
When I pull into his driveway, the aroma of onions and butter floats through the open kitchen window. Zosia’s laughter trails behind it, bright and unstoppable. I leave my bag at the door and step into warmth that feels like something whole.
Dominik glances up from the stove, grinning. “Perfect timing, moja kochana. The golabki is ready.”
“Stuffed cabbage, mm.” I smile. “My Mama’s favorite.”
He winks. “Then you’ll love mine. Family recipe. Probably stolen by your mama frommineanyway. Even Father Marek says hers is the best.”
Dinner is easy. Zosia fills the space with chatter, school stories, bunny sketches, the doll wedding of the day. Dominik plays along, solemn as a priest, nodding like it’s classified intelligence. When she yawns through dessert, he scoops her up and carries her off, singing something tender that tugs somewhere deep. When he comes back, the house feels softer. We curl up on the couch, plates soaking in the sink, bellies full. His arm settles heavy and warm around my shoulders; I let myself lean into it, the rhythm of his breathing anchoring me. I want to try,really trytonight, to stop living between the cracks of things. To build a solid foundation on the things wedoshare. To get to know him better, I owe him that. To make an effort, to be curious.
“What’s your favorite movie?” I ask, curled into his warmth.
“Don’t really watch many.”
“None?”
