Page 56 of Neap & Spring

The words cracked against my skin and made the guilt I’d been carrying feel even heavier.

He was being kind. And understanding. He was giving me space and grace that I didn’t deserve.

When all I’d done was take from him. His trust. His friendship. His right to know why I’d disappeared.

“Thank you.” The words came out rough.

He looked up then and met my eyes. “We okay?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “We’re okay.”

And we were.

We are.

It’s not the same as Paris. But we’re not the same people we were then. Too much has happened, and too much time has passed. But there are moments, small ones that are easy to miss if you’re not paying attention, where I catch glimpses of who we used to be.

I’m at the sink, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn coffee stain in the bottom of a white ceramic mug, when I hear Roman call out from across the kitchen.

“Chef, taste this.”

I glance up without meaning to at the title, my hands still in the soapy water.

Callum sets down his notebook and walks over to Roman’s station. Roman holds out a spoon, and Callum takes it, bringing it to his mouth.

And I can’t stop watching.

The spoon touching his lips. The way his throat works when he swallows, testing the flavors. His face does that thing it always does when he’s tasting something. It stays completely neutral and unreadable. It’s the same expression he’d give our instructors in Paris when they’d ask what he thought of a dish, not wanting to give anything away until he’d fully processed it.

I’d forgotten that face. I used to study it and try to figure out what he was thinking. I’d watch him taste things and wonder what he was experiencing. What flavors he was picking apart and what textures he was analyzing.

I force my eyes back to the sink. Back to the dishes. Back to anything that isn’t the line of Callum’s throat or the concentration on his face.

“More acid,” Callum decides finally, handing the spoon back.

“I literally just added lemon,” Roman protests.

“Add more.”

“It’s gonna be too bright.”

“It’s flat right now. It needs more.”

I listen to the back and forth, the easy rhythm of it. This is what a good kitchen looks like. This is what Callum has built here. A place that actually feels safe and welcoming.

Roman sighs, dramatic and put-on, but he’s already reaching for the lemon. “You’re the worst.”

I laugh.

It comes out before I can stop it, loud enough that it surprises even me. I can’t remember the last time that happened. A spontaneous burst of laughter from me. I bring my hand up to my mouth in shock.

Both of them turn to look at me.

“Sorry,” I say, pulling my other hand out of the water and wiping them both on a towel hanging from the dish station. “Just — some things never change.”

Callum’s eyebrows go up. “Meaning?”

I turn to face them fully, leaning back against the counter. “You were like this in school too. Always pushing people. More acid. More salt. More something. You’d make people redo things until they were perfect.”