Page 126 of Wisteria and Cloves
Across from me, Christopher leaned back against the island, one arm folded over his middle while the other held his mug. His sleeves were still rolled up, forearms lightly dusted with flour, the faintest trace of dough clinging beneath one of his knuckles. His smile was relaxed, slow in the way that made you feel like you were the only one he was smiling at.
“You didn’t hate it,” he said, voice dipped with amusement but genuine. “That’s a start.”
I snorted softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I didn’t burn anything. Or cry. So I’d say that’s a win.”
“High praise,” he teased.
I let the silence stretch between us for a few heartbeats before murmuring, “I liked it. Cooking. With you. It was… safe.”
His smile faltered just slightly at the edges, like he didn’t want to spook the moment, and nodded. “It should always be that.”
Before I could say more, the gentle buzz of his phone cut through the quiet. He glanced down, thumb tapping the screen, and then his eyes flicked up to meet mine.
“The post is live,” he said. Just like that, the weight in my chest returned. He brought the phone over, turning it so I could see the screen. The short video was beautifully done—a softcascade of visual storytelling. There were close-ups of hands kneading dough, flour falling like snow, steam curling upward from simmering sauce. No faces. Just movement. Warmth. Life. The kind of life I hadn’t known I could have.
The caption read:Simple food. Honest hands. Saturday comfort.
His account was tagged beneath it, and already, hundreds of hearts and comments had begun to flood in.
Whoever filmed this has magic in their hands.
The food, the light, the vibes—this is what the internet needs more of.
I want to eat this and cry about my childhood at the same time. Perfect.
This kitchen feels like a dream. More please.
No influencer nonsense. Just calm. Thank you.
My eyes skimmed the screen, my pulse fluttering in my throat. “They like it,” I whispered.
Christopher gave a soft laugh. “They do. They feel it. You didn’t have to say a word.”
I swallowed, my fingers brushing the rim of my teacup. “But they don’t know it’s me.”
“They don’t need to,” he said, stepping closer, voice low. “The point was never about visibility. It was about truth. Showing a life that exists. And that’s what you did. Whether they know it or not, they saw you.”
I exhaled slowly, some tension in my shoulders melting down my spine. “It doesn’t feel like a war, this way.”
He smiled again, slower this time. “Because it isn’t. It’s just the truth. That’s all it takes, sometimes." The light caught on his cheekbones, softening the planes of his face. His hands were no longer flour-dusted, but I remembered the way they had moved earlier—capable, patient, teaching without condescending. He had never once made me feel foolish.
“Thank you,” I said finally. “For today. For making it more than just a post.”
“Anytime,” he replied simply, and it felt like a promise. I watched him scroll through more comments, his expression growing thoughtful. "You know," he said, glancing up at me, "this is just the beginning. There's so much more I want to show you—baking bread, making preserves, maybe even trying your hand at soufflé."
"Soufflé?" I laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in hours. "Christopher, I just barely managed pasta. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Trust me," he said, his gray eyes dancing with mischief. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be cooking circles around all of us."
The way he said it—like it was inevitable, like he could see a future version of me I couldn't even imagine—made warmth bloom in my chest.
"Christopher," I said softly, setting down my mug. The way he looked at me in the golden kitchen light made my breath catch. There was something unguarded in his expression, a tenderness that made my heart skip.
"Yeah?" he murmured, stepping closer until I could smell his cologne mixed with the lingering scents of our cooking—something warm and inviting that made me want to lean into him.
Instead of answering with words, I reached up and brushed the remaining bit of dough from his knuckle with my thumb. The simple touch sent electricity through both of us, his breath hitching slightly as my fingers lingered against his skin. His eyes darkened, pupils expanding as he watched me with a mixture of surprise and longing.
"You missed a spot," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
