Miss the way you move like music
Even when you're just making tea
Alphabetized your cinnamon
Never alphabetized me
I should have thrown it away. Filed it under "Random Jake Nonsense" and moved on with my day. Instead, I'd folded it carefully and slipped it behind my driver's license.
I told myself it was for future reference, but the truth was more straightforward: I didn't want to forget how it made me feel.
A dish clattered in the kitchen. Jake was cleaning. The sound pattern suggested a systematic approach rather than chaotic damage control.
I typed a random sentence into my practice notes and deleted it immediately. I couldn't concentrate.
Footsteps approached the living room. I continued staring at the computer and tracked Jake's movement through peripheral vision. He appeared in the doorway holding a dish towel.
"Apologizing in your language this time." He raised the towel slightly.
I looked up. His eyes were darker than usual, more brown than their typical hazel-green, and focused intently on me.
"I noticed."
Harmony: TBD
The response to my note was still stuck to the refrigerator door—written in Jake's loose scrawl, complete with a heart replacing the 'o' in harmony. It was ridiculous. Childish. And yet, impossible to ignore.
"You spelled harmony with a heart instead of an 'o,'" I said.
He responded with a self-conscious grin. "A personal growth moment."
I stood and stretched my arms overhead. It was time to make some afternoon tea.
The kitchen was pristine. Jake stood at the counter, folding the dish towel with surprising precision—not my level of geometric perfection, but close enough. Every surface gleamed under the overhead lights. The sink was empty, and the faucet was polished to eliminate water spots. Even the coffee maker had been wiped down.
He'd done more than apologize. He'd attempted to speak my language fluently.
The cookie jar sat on the counter beside the stove, with the ceramic lid slightly askew. Thirty-six cookies inside—I'd counted them twice during cooling, ensuring even distribution of chocolate chips and optimal texture consistency.
They were good cookies. Perfect cookies, if I were being honest. They required precise timing and quality ingredients.
Jake noticed me staring at the jar. Without ceremony, I lifted the lid, selected a cookie from the top layer, and held it out toward Jake.
"Here."
He blinked. "Wait. Isn't this... illegal?"
It was a violation of established protocol. The cookie jar had been off-limits to Jake since he moved in. When I offered him cookies, I placed them in a separate Tupperware container.
"Consider it off the record," I said.
Jake stared at the cookie in my palm. He took it carefully, fingers brushing mine for half a second. The contact lasted longer than necessary, or maybe I imagined that.
Instead of his usual performance—an exaggerated bite and theatrical appreciation—Jake raised the cookie to his mouth and took a small bite. His eyes closed briefly, and I watched his jaw work as he chewed, savoring the texture and flavor.
He swallowed and opened his eyes. "These are really good."
"Thank you."
