“Oh.”
“And popcorn.”
His face clears slightly. “I can do popcorn.”
“Can you?”
“I can apply heat to kernels.”
“That is exactly the level of culinary confidence I feared.”
I find popcorn in one of the cabinets and butter in the refrigerator. There is parmesan, smoked paprika, garlic powder, a lime, and fresh herbs that somehow survived the last couple of days better than I did. My hands shake when I take down a pan, but they do not fail me.
Cole notices. He seems to notice everything about me, but he doesn’t try to take over. He stands close enough to catch the bowl if I drop it and far enough to let me make the popcorn myself.
That is love, I think. The useful kind that lets a woman put butter in a pan after the worst day of her life because normal things matter too.
The kernels begin to pop, first one, then another, then all at once. The sound fills the kitchen, sharp and cheerful and absurd. I laugh before I mean to.
Cole’s eyes come to my face.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I wipe under one eye with the back of my wrist. “It just sounds happy.”
His expression changes like something in him hurts because I found joy in a pan of popcorn. I toss it with melted butter, parmesan, smoked paprika, lime zest, and chopped parsley because apparently trauma does not destroy my need to season things properly. Then I dump the whole fragrant mountain into the biggest bowl I can find.
Cole looks at it. “That’s popcorn?”
“That is gourmet homemade popcorn.”
“It has garnish.”
“It has dignity.”
“Popcorn needs dignity?”
“Everything needs dignity after today.”
That silences us both. For a second, the kitchen stretches around the words.
Then Cole reaches for the bowl. “Movie.”
I choose the least threatening romantic comedy available on the rental app. It has a woman in a bakery, a fake boyfriend, three misunderstandings that could be solved with one honest conversation, and absolutely no stalkers. It’s perfect.
Cole sits at one end of the couch. I look at him. He looks back. Then he opens one arm. I crawl into the space beside him like I have been doing it for years. His arm settles around me, heavy and warm. I tuck my legs beneath me, lean my head against his chest, and set the popcorn bowl where both of us can reach it.
The movie begins. I could not tell anyone the first fifteen minutes of the plot if my life depended on it.
There is a bakery. A golden retriever. A man in a suit who definitely should not be trusted with anyone’s emotional future. Cole eats the popcorn silently until he says, “This is good.”
I turn my face against his shirt to hide my smile. “Try not to sound shocked.”
“I’m not shocked.”
“You’re a little shocked.”
“I didn’t know popcorn could have layers.”
