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"No. Not at all," I say.

"Here, I'll put those in the dryer." Javier says. I hand him my clothes. Our fingers brush. Neither of us says anything. He adds them to the dryer with his.

Dinner happens because apparently putting a farmer and a chef in a kitchen together leaves us with no other option.

Javier opens the refrigerator. "What do you feel like eating?"

“You’re asking me?”

“You’re the guest.”

“Is this how you treat all your guests?”

His mouth curves. “No. You’re getting special treatment.”

Thunder rolls outside. I glance toward the window.

“Then I suppose I could stay a little longer.”

His smile deepens. “I was hoping you would.”

Then he pulls out mushrooms, greens, cream, and fresh pasta. I spot tomatoes on the counter.

"And those."

He follows my gaze. "The tomatoes? What about them?"

"We roast them."

"With?"

"Garlic and thyme?"

"And marjoram," he suggests.

I consider it. "Even better."

We cook together. Not one of us helping the other. Together.

He starts the tomatoes while I slice mushrooms. I reach for salt before he asks. He moves behind me for a pan without interrupting what I'm doing.

At one point, we reach for the same knife. Our hands meet. Neither of us moves.

He smiles. “Go ahead.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t that your favorite knife?”

“It is.” He lets me take it. “You’re welcome to use it.”

“Thank you.”

“I like cooking with you,” he says.

I glance up at him. “I like cooking with you, too.”

He smiles as he reaches for another.

For a while, there's only rain against the windows, the hiss of vegetables hitting a hot pan, and the comfortable rhythm of two people who know what they're doing.