Page 61 of Office Hours
“My dad died of cancer when I was eleven. Stomach. He was sick for maybe three months, and the whole time, it was just hospital after hospital. They did tests, surgeries, gave him a million drugs, and none of it worked. He lost, like, a hundred pounds in two months. By the end, he wasn’t even a person anymore. Just a skeleton in a gown.”
She picks at a thread on her sleeve. “I was the only one who visited him every day. The nurses knew me by name. I still remember the sound of the machines at night, the way the hallways smelled like bleach and sadness. After that, I couldn’t go near a hospital without getting panic attacks.”
She swallows hard, looks up at the ceiling. “So when I started having the cramps, the doctors, the ultrasounds—it was all too much. I just stopped going. Figured I’d deal with it when I had to.”
I step closer, run my hand down her hair, then cup her cheek. “You don’t have to deal with it alone.”
She closes her eyes, leans into the touch. “I know,” she whispers. “But it feels like I do.”
I kiss her forehead, just once, and she melts against my chest. We stay like that for a minute, the kitchen warm and safe, the night cold and sharp outside the window.
She straightens, wipes her eyes, and laughs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to trauma-dump on you.”
“Don’t apologize.”
She grins, grabs the spinach spoon, and pokes me in the ribs. “Now tell me something embarrassing about you.”
I pretend to consider it. “I was in a boy band, once.”
She shrieks, loud enough to rattle the pans. “No fucking way!”
“Senior year of high school. We had matching shirts and did synchronized dances. There’s video.”
“Oh my god, please show me.”
“Maybe. If you’re good.”
She leans in, smirking. “Define good.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Whatever you want it to mean.”
We finish cooking together, falling into a rhythm that feels natural. She sets the table, I pour the wine. The meal is nothing fancy—roast chicken, sautéed spinach, some wild rice with cranberries—but it feels like a feast. We eat side by side at the kitchen island, sharing bites off each other’s plates, feet touching under the stools.
When we’re done, she loads the dishwasher and washes the big pan by hand, humming tunelessly under her breath. I lean against the doorway, just watching her, memorizing the way her hair falls over one eye, the way she scrunches her nose at stubborn bits of food, the way she turns and smiles when she catches me staring.
“What?” she asks, flicking a drop of water at me.
“Nothing,” I say, grinning. “Just looking, that’s all.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are pink.
After the dishes, I suggest dessert. She says, “Only if it’s you.”
I raise an eyebrow, and she laughs, shoving me toward the stairs.
We leave the kitchen a mess, plates still drying on the rack, crumbs on the counter. Upstairs, we make new messes, ones that can’t be tidied away with a sponge and a little effort.
But for now, I just want to remember this: the smell of food, the sound of her laughter, the heat of her hand in mine. I want to believe it can last.
I want to believe I deserve it.
Upstairs,in the blue-dark hush of my bedroom, everything feels different. The house is still, but there’s a charge under my skin, an old, animal tension that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the possibility of fucking it all up. Simone stands just inside the door, eyes on the bed like it’s a new country she isn’t sure she’s ready to visit.
“You good?” I ask, my voice low.
She gives me a look, bright and a little wild. “Are you going to tell me I have to finish my vegetables first?”
I shake my head, smiling as I approach. “No more rules.”
