Page 80 of After the Snap

“What can I do?”

“You’re supposed to let me cook for you.”

“I can let you cook for me and still help.”

I planned tonight with myself on this side of the counter and her on the other, but having her beside me is better than anything I pictured this afternoon.

“The vegetables are ready to go in.”

She reaches for the sheet pan of vegetables I already tossed with olive oil and seasoning, but before I can take it from her, she has the oven open and is sliding it onto the rack.

She bumps the oven closed with her hip and looks at me. “What else?”

I hand her the bowl for the salad and turn back to the stove, smiling when she falls in place beside me. There’s enough room for both of us, but we keep getting in each other’s way. Her arm brushes mine when she reaches for something, my hand finds her hip when I move behind her, and every accidental touch becomes less accidental the longer we share the space. At some point, she steals a piece of cucumber from the cutting board.

“I saw that.”

I catch her wrist before she can steal another and turn her hand over, taking the second piece from between her fingers for myself. Her laugh follows me back to the stove, and I stop thinking about what I planned for tonight and start enjoying what it has become.

The sauce needs another minute, so I dip the spoon into it and hold it toward her. “Taste.”

She leans in without reaching for the spoon, her lips closing around the edge while I hold it for her. I watch her face instead of the sauce, waiting while she considers it. “It needs salt.”

I taste from the same spoon before I can think about the fact that her mouth was just there. She’s right, and when I reach for the salt, her shoulder presses into mine as she watches me add it.

“You look disappointed.”

“I’m deciding whether inviting you into my kitchen was a mistake.”

“You asked for my opinion.”

I add a little salt and stir it through before holding the spoon toward her again. This time, she takes it from me, tastes the sauce, then looks at me while she considers it.

“Better.”

I reach for the spoon, but instead of handing it back, she lifts it toward my mouth. Her attention stays on me while I taste it, waiting for my reaction.

“Yeah. Better.”

She turns back to the salad as soon as I respond, and when I pass behind her, I put my hand on the back of her neck and press a kiss to her temple before reaching for the plates.

We eat at the island because neither of us bothers to move to the table. Calliope takes the stool beside mine instead of the one across from me, close enough that her knee rests against my thigh whenever she turns toward me. The conversation moves with us from the kitchen with no effort. Calliope tells me about the question she almost changed on this morning’s practice test, and when I tell her Coach is giving me the first half hour with the receivers on Wednesday, she puts her fork down and gives me her full attention.

“He’s letting you run it?”

“Yeah. Whatever I think we need.”

A smile spreads across her face before I’ve even told her what I want to work on. “You like that, don’t you?”

I nod, smiling back at her. She went straight past the responsibility Coach gave me to the part that matters. Once I tell her what I’m thinking, she lets me talk. Her questions aren’t about the technical details. She wants to know what I saw on film, what I think the receivers need from me, and whether I’m looking forward to running it. By the time I finish explaining how I want to use the thirty minutes, we’ve both made a decent dent in dinner.

Calliope looks down at her plate, then mine, and reaches for a piece of my chicken. I move my plate out of range. “Did you just protect your dinner from me?”

“You have the same thing on your plate.”

“But it tastes better when it’s yours.”

I cut the piece she was reaching for, but instead of putting it on her plate, I hold the fork toward her. Calliope’s eyes flick to mine before she leans closer and takes the bite, and the ease with which she accepts it keeps my hand there a second longer than necessary. I wanted this tonight—the chance to give her something simply because I could—and the look on her face when she closes her eyes over the food makes me want to keep doing it. When she opens them again, her gaze stays on mine as she finishes the bite before reaching for her own fork, cutting a piece from her plate, and bringing it toward me.