The first month was cold. Polite but cold.
Separate schedules. Separate corners of the apartment.
Conversations that were really just logistics.
Then small things started happening.
She started coming home earlier.
You stopped eating dinner alone.
Neither of you commented on any of it.
You just— kept showing up to the same spaces.
Until it started feeling natural.
You’re in the kitchen.
Bowl in front of you.
Flour on the counter.
Music low.
It’s Saturday which means you bake. You’ve always baked on Saturdays.
She knows this now.
She appears in the doorway at some point— you’re not sure when— she’s just there.
Leaning against the frame.
Arms crossed.
Watching.
“What is it this time woman.”
“Banana bread.”
She makes a sound.
Approving.
Moves into the kitchen.
Opens the fridge.
Stands there for a long moment.
Closes it.
Leans against the counter beside you instead.
You keep mixing.
She watches.
Then— her finger. Dipping straight into the batter.
“Hey—”
She’s already pulling it back.
“Aurora.”
“Hm.”
“I needed that.”
“You have plenty.”
“That’s not the point—”
She does it again.
You turn and look at her.
She looks back. Completely unbothered.
Licking her finger like she didn’t just commit a crime.
“…you’re so vile.”
“It’s good.”
“I know it’s good. It was going to be bread.”
“It’s better like this.”
You stare at her.
She tilts her head slightly.
The corner of her mouth moving.
That almost-smile she does.
The one you’ve started looking for without meaning to.
You turn back to the bowl.
“Stay out of the batter.”
“Mhm.”
Two minutes pass.
You feel her shift beside you.
“Aurora—”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Your hand is moving toward the bowl.”
“I’m stretching.”
“You are not stretching.”
She straightens. Innocent.
You look at her sideways.
She looks back.
And there it is— that thing that lives between you now.
That didn’t used to be there.
Warm. Quiet. Unannounced.
“Can I do something.”
She says it low. Like asking costs her something.
You blink.
“…what?”
She nods at the bowl. “Can I do something with the—”
“You want to help.”
“I want to do something.”
“That’s the same—”
“It’s not.”
You look at her.
She’s looking at the bowl. Jaw set slightly.
Like admitting she wants to be here— in your Saturday— in your kitchen—
is something she’s still negotiating with herself.
You grab a second spoon. Hold it out.
She looks at it. Then takes it.
Stands beside you.
And you mix together— quietly— her shoulder against yours— the music still low— flour on the counter—
and neither of you say a single word about what this is.
What it’s been becoming.
You just— stand there.
In the Saturday morning kitchen.
Like it was always going to end up here. Like this was always the plan.
Even when it wasn’t.
She dips the spoon.
Tastes it.
“Still needs something.”
“It doesn’t need anything.”
“Little more vanilla—”
“It’s a recipe—”
“Recipes are suggestions.”