Warning
The first time Reagan cooks for me is on a rainy Sunday in April—exactly one week after the café reunion and the messy, tear-soaked kiss that ended with us sleeping on my couch, fully clothed, his arms around me like he was afraid I’d vanish again if he let go.
We don’t talk about forgiveness that week. We don’t talk about Marco, or Lia, or the five years of silence. We just… exist in the same space again. Texts in the morning. Calls at night. A quick coffee meet-up on Wednesday after work. Small steps. Careful. Like learning to walk after a long time in bed.
Sunday morning he texts:
Your place. 5 pm. I’m cooking. Don’t eat before.
No emojis. No questions. Just the instruction.
I spend the day cleaning my tiny apartment—wiping counters, folding laundry, lighting the candle A
