The microwave clock glowed too brightly: 02:07. That green light stabbed at my eyes, like it was accusing the both of us for still being awake at an hour meant for nothing but regret or sleep.

She stood in front of the stove, wearing an oversized T-shirt that was clearly mine. It fell to mid-thigh, the sleeves too long, the collar slipping slightly off one shoulder. Her hair was still messy—not the deliberate kind, but the kind that happens when someone is too tired to care. She leaned against the kitchen counter with one hip, staring seriously at her phone as if she were conducting a scientific experiment, not just trying to make something edible.

“I’m hungry,” she’d said earlier. Not a request. A statement of fact.

The kitchen light was far too bright for this hour. White. Cold. Unforgiving. The smell of hot oil began to fill the room, followed by the sound of something sizzling in a way that told me—before I even saw it—this wasn’t going to end well.

I sat on one of the tall stools by the counter, watching her work. Or try to. She stirred something with a wooden spoon, frowned, then stirred again as if mild anger might improve the flavor. Every so often, she leaned closer to the stove, rereading the recipe on her phone, then let out a quiet huff.

“This is supposed to be… browner, right?” she muttered, half asking, half defending herself.

I shrugged. “I think so.”

That was it. I didn’t offer a solution. I didn’t stand up to help. I knew better than to take over something she clearly wanted to finish on her own.

The burnt smell eventually became undeniable. She turned off the stove a little too forcefully, then stared into the pan for a long moment, as if waiting for it to apologize first.

“Oops,” she said lightly.

We ate at the small kitchen table. Two plates. Two forks. Food that was… well. Not great. The texture was off, the taste too salty on one side and bland on the other. I knew it with the first bite. My tongue knew. My brain knew. I kept eating anyway.

I kept eating anyway.

She watched me from across the table, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Be honest,” she said. “It’s bad, right?”

I chewed, swallowed, then shrugged again. “I’ve had worse.”

She let out a small laugh, tired and fleeting. She only ate half her portion before pushing her plate away. I—without a word—took the rest and finished that too.

No praise. No criticism. Just the quiet clink of a fork against ceramic and the low hum of the old refrigerator in the corner.

She leaned back against the counter afterward, arms folded, her head tilted slightly as she looked at me. “You didn’t have to finish it,” she said.

I knew.

I just shrugged again.

And that’s when I realized it—with a clarity that came too slowly to be called a surprise. This wasn’t some grand sacrifice. Not a declaration of love. Not a dramatic moment. It was small. Trivial. Finishing food that didn’t taste good. Sitting awake in an overly bright kitchen at an unreasonable hour. Adjusting myself without being asked.

This was the most dangerous kind of love. Not when you’re willing to die for someone. But when you stop wanting to change anything at all.

She turned off the kitchen light, leaving only the faint glow from the hallway. As we walked away, her arm brushed against mine—lightly, unintentionally. Or maybe intentionally. I didn’t ask.

And I followed.