Not a Date
He cooked.
I couldn't quite explain to myself why that surprised me. I already knew Jude cooked … I'd watched him do it in family kitchens a hundred times over the years, easy and unhurried the same way he moved through every room he ever occupied, like the space simply rearranged itself around him without needing to be asked.
But there was something entirely different about walking into his flat this time and finding the table already set, something simmering low on the stove, the air thick with the smell of garlic and wine reducing in a pan.
It felt like an intention. Like he'd sat down at some point earlier that day and made specific, deliberate choices about exactly how this particular evening was going to go.
"Sit," he said, not even looking up from the stove.
I sat
