I glanced at the lights overhead, still burning bright and steady despite the wind beginning to rattle the window frames. "Probably. And if we don't, there's always the camping stove in the utility closet."
I turned the radio off, and Eric brought his laptop over to the kitchen counter. He hit a key, and some folk singer I didn't recognize filled the kitchen with acoustic guitar and a voice like warm honey.
The music felt exactly right.
The kitchen wasn't designed for two people to work simultaneously. When the cottage was built sometime in the 1940s, cooking had been a solitary endeavor—one person, one pot, minimal fuss. Adding Eric required delicate improvisation.
"Behind you." He slid past me to the stove, where the pasta water had achieved a proper rolling boil. His palm grazed my lower back as he moved.
"How much salt?" Eric held the pasta box in one hand.
"Until it tastes like the ocean." I glanced over my shoulder to find him studying the back of the box. "Or just follow the directions. Either works."
"The ocean it is." He measured salt with his palm, sprinkling it into the churning water. "My grandma always said pasta water should taste like tears of joy."
"Your grandma sounds like a poet."
The oil I'd sprinkled in my cast-iron skillet was hot, and I added the mushrooms with a satisfying hiss. They released their earthy moisture immediately. I stirred them with a wooden spoon, watching them shrink and concentrate their flavor.
Eric moved closer, drawn by the aroma. "Those smell incredible. What's your secret?"
"High heat, don't overcrowd the pan, and resist the urge to poke at them every thirty seconds." I nudged the mushrooms to one side of the skillet. "They need space to breathe, like people."
"Philosophical cooking advice. I like it." Eric leaned against the counter beside me. "What else can mushrooms teach us about life?"
"Patience. They'll tell you when they're ready." I added minced garlic to the hot oil, which immediately began to perfume the air with sharp sweetness. "And they'll say the best transformations happen under pressure."
"Pasta's almost ready," Eric announced, testing a piece between his teeth. "Maybe two more minutes."
"Perfect timing." I poured the marinara sauce into the skillet with the mushrooms and garlic, where it began to bubble and reduce, concentrating into something richer than the sum of its parts.
Eric drained the pasta with theatrical efficiency, steam rising from the colander in cloudy billows. "Sauce ready?"
I spooned a small amount onto my finger and tasted it, noting how the mushrooms had released their earthy depth into the tomatoes while the garlic had mellowed into sweetness. "Ready."
After we devoured our rustic creation, the dishes surrendered to hot water and soap with minimal protest. I scrubbed the cast iron skillet with salt and a brush, working oil into the metal's pores to maintain the seasoning built up over decades of use.
Eric folded the dish towel with precise corners and hung it on its designated hook beside the sink. "Coffee? Or something stronger?"
I considered the options while drying my hands on my jeans. "Whiskey," I decided. "The good stuff."
I retrieved two glasses—mismatched like everything else in the cottage—and poured generous measures of amber liquid that caught the lamplight like liquid gold. The whiskey smelled of peat and honey.
Eric accepted his glass with both hands, warming the liquor between his palms before carefully sipping. The whiskey caused his cheeks to flush.
He quietly rolled the glass between his hands. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up. That this whole thing—you, me, whatever's happening here—is too good to be real."
It was an honest and vulnerable confession. I sipped my whiskey. "What makes you think it's too good?"
"Because I've never wanted anything this much before, and, in my experience, wanting something this badly usually means you can't have it."
I set my glass on the counter and crossed the narrow space between us. Eric looked up as I cradled his face in my hands.
"You have it. You have me."
I kissed him.
It was deliberate, confident, and unapologetic. I pressed my mouth to his like I'd been planning it for hours instead of deciding in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
