Page 89 of This Life of Mine

Because no one ever offered me that sort of kindness before.

With Cole, I did the shopping. I unloaded the car. I put everything away while he sank into the couch like the effort of standing was beneath him. If he cooked—and that was rare—I still prepped everything beforehand. Chopped. Seasoned. Planned. And afterward, I cleaned while he acted like grilling a steak made him a hero.

He used to brag about it, too. Like standing over a grill with a beer while I handled the rest was some monumental contribution, like he’d done the hardest part. And his steaks were shit.

I follow Alex into the kitchen now, watching as he sets the bags down carefully, already scanning the counter space, thinking ahead.

“You can tell me where you want things,” he says easily.

“Feel free to use any space in the kitchen,” I say.

I begin pointing to each cabinet and drawer, giving him a brief overview of where items are.

He takes it all in and nods, content with the information.

I lean against the doorway for a moment, watching him unpack. No charade or expectation of praise. Just simple competence.

It shouldn’t seem this different. But it does.

As I watch him move around the kitchen, a quiet realization settles over me.

This isn’t extraordinary. It’s the bare minimum.

Carrying in groceries. Cooking dinner. Showing up. None of it should feel remarkable.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot that partnership isn’t something one person carries alone. It’s something two people choose to build together. The right person doesn’t “help.” They participate. They notice what needs to be done because they care, not because they were asked.

Maybe Alex is only doing what any decent man would do.

Maybe that’s the point.

Even if this is ordinary to him, he thought enough of me to come over, cook dinner, and give me one less thing to worry about.

And tonight...that feels really, really good.

Alex is already moving quickly. Washing his hands and taking stock of my kitchen like its familiar territory.

“Sit,” he says gently, nodding toward the breakfast table. “I’m sure you’ve done enough today.”

I move to open my mouth in protest out of habit—a reflexiveI’m fine,I can help, let me—but stop myself.

“…Okay,” I say, surprising us both.

I perch on the stool and watch him move around the kitchen, competently without being rushed, like he’s done this a hundred times.

He senses my eyes on him.

“You look uncomfortable,” he says without turning around.

“I do not.” How does he know? He’s facing the counter.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You do. Like you’re waiting for permission to stand back up and take over.”

I bring my arms across my chest, uncross them, and realize that probably proves his point. “I’m merely…observing.”

“Mm-hmm,” he says, grabbing a pan. “You’re terrible at doing nothing.”

I arch a brow. “Excuse you.”