Page 61 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

“Hand me that wooden spoon?”

I reached for it at the same time she turned, and suddenly we were standing so close I could feel her breath, her face tilted up toward mine, my hand brushing hers as I passed her the spoon. For a moment that stretched like taffy, neither of us moved.

Then I leaned down and closed that last inch of space to kiss her, the way we’d been since that night after the storm

But then she stepped back, turning to stir whatever was in the pot, and the moment dissolved like snow on warm skin.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice just slightly breathless.

“Sure.” I moved back to the cutting board, chopping carrots that definitely didn’t need this much attention.

This was how it had been since she’d moved into the house—moments of connection that felt significant, quiet kisses that lingered just long enough to mean something, conversations that danced around the edges of what we were both thinking but weren’t quite ready to say.

I was trying to be patient. She’d been through enough upheaval without me adding pressure to figure out whatever this was between us. But the waiting was starting to feel like holding my breath underwater—sustainable for a while, but not indefinitely.

“How was school today?” I asked because it was safe territory and because I genuinely wanted to know. Watching Cassie talk about her students was like watching someone discuss their favorite work of art—her whole face lit up, animated and passionate in a way that made me fall a little harder every time.

“Chaotic,” she said, but she was smiling. “You remember how I volunteered to help Mr. Townsen with the play, Romeo and Juliet. Well, I tried to help them act out the balcony scene. Ashley discovered that if you dramatically fling yourself against the stage wall, you can get what she called ‘authentic tragic emotion,’ which sounds ridiculous but was actually pretty accurate.”

“Sounds like she’s gonna wind up with authentic bruises. Do any of them actually understand Shakespeare?”

“No, it’s an acting class. But they had fun.”

She laughed, that sound that had become as essential to my daily well-being as coffee or breathing. “Mike did. He was excited about the sword-fighting scene. He offered to bring a few real swords from home, but Mr. Townsen put a halt to that idea.”

“Probably for the best. His mom would think you were training a Shakespeare militia.”

“Don’t give them ideas. Mike already asked if we could do a play with more sword fights. Apparently, one duel scene isn’t enough for him.”

I watched her move around the small kitchen with growing confidence, opening cabinets without having to think about where things were, adjusting the heat on the stove with familiarity. She’d settled here in a way that went deeper than just having somewhere to live—she was rooted, grounded, blooming like something that had finally found the right soil.

“You know,” I said, testing the waters, “for someone who claimed she couldn’t cook when you came to town, you’ve gotten pretty good at this homemaker thing.”

She snorted, almost dropping the wooden spoon. “Homemaker? Have you seen my laundry situation? I’m pretty sure I have a sock pile that’s reached architectural status at this point.”

“Maybe you should charge admission. Call it modern art.”

“Great. Now I’m going to be known as the teacher who accidentally created self-aware hosiery.”

“Could be worse. You could be known as the teacher who burned down her house making toast.”

“That was one time! And the smoke alarm was being dramatic.”

The easy banter felt like coming home. This was what I’d been missing without realizing it—someone to share dinner with, someone whose passion for sophomore science made perfect sense, someone who turned a simple meal into something that felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re happy,” I observed, and it wasn’t a question.

She paused in her stirring, considering. “Yeah,” she said. “I really am. Even with everything that happened, with the cottage and starting over...I’m happy.”

“Good. You deserve to be happy.”

She looked at me over her shoulder, something soft in her eyes. “So do you.”

The words hung in the air between us, weighted with meaning I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret. Before I could respond, she was turning back to the stove, adding herbs to whatever she was cooking with focused attention that suggested the moment had passed.

We ate by the window, watching another flurry of snow fall in lazy spirals past the window. The house was warm and filled with the smell of her cooking and the soft glow of the lamps she’d placed strategically around the space. It felt like home in a way that made my chest ache with wanting.

“I went to see the cottage yesterday,” she said casually, cutting into her chicken.