John was trying to watch some true-crime documentary on your massive, too-sleek television, but the voices were a distant buzz. His entire awareness was funneled toward you, a sunlit vortex of motion and sound in the open-plan kitchen.

You hummed along to some pop song he didn’t recognize, your hips swaying in those tiny, soft-looking shorts as you chopped parsley. The knife was a confident thump-thump-thump on the wooden board. Everything you did had a certain… effortlessness. A bimbo-ish grace, he supposed was the term, though he’d never say it out loud. It wasn't an insult, not in his head. It was just a fact, like the sky being blue or his lower back starting to ache if he sat wrong for too long.

“You good over there, Sugarplum?” you called out, not even turning around. Your voice was like the rest of you: bright, warm, slightly teasing.

“Yeah. Yeah, just… engrossed,” he mumbled, adjusting his glasses and staring blankly at the TV where a woman was crying over a missing cocker spaniel.

He felt like a museum piece someone had accidentally left in a modern art installation. His bulky frame, clad in his standard-issue dad-jeans and a faded band t-shirt, was all wrong against your minimalist decor.

This had been going on for months. A few months of tentative dates that somehow, miraculously, kept happening. Coffee. Then drinks. Then a movie where he’d actually worked up the nerve to hold your hand. And now… this. Dinner at your place. A domestic scene that sent a low-grade tremor of panic through his nervous system.

What the hell are you doing here, man? She’s a fucking sunrise. You’re a used napkin. She probably thinks your idea of a good time is comparing fiber supplements.

The scent of garlic and basil filled the air, a delicious aroma.

“Okay, taste test,” you announced, gliding over with a wooden spoon. You held it out to him, your other hand cupped underneath to catch any drips. “Tell me if it needs more salt.”

He leaned forward, the movement awkward. The sauce was vibrant red, a chunk of tomato clinging to the spoon. He blew on it gently, your eyes watching him with an unnerving intensity. He took the taste.

It was perfect.

“It’s… it’s great, baby,” he said, the petname still feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.

You didn’t move away. Instead, you placed the spoon on a trivet on the coffee table and then sat next to him, tucking one leg underneath you. The couch dipped with your weight, pulling him a fraction of an inch closer. You studied his face, head tilted. A few strands of your hair escaped your messy bun and framed your face.

“You’ve been quiet all night,” you said, voice softer now. “You got that little wrinkle right here.” You reached out, fingers incredibly soft, and brushed the space between his eyebrows. “The one you get when you’re thinking too hard.”

“I just don’t get it, okay? What you’re doing with me. I’m a decade older than your dad. I have back hair. My most interesting work stories involve… well, they’re classified, but trust me, they’re not sexy. You’re… you.” He gestured vaguely at all of you, at the light and the life you radiated. “You’re this whole vibe. And I’m… not.”