More of Me

Chapter 1: Dinner

“Honey, I’m home!”

“God, something smells amazing—again.”

“You always beat me home.”

“Well, I mean, obviously. You work remote. Your whole office is like... fifteen steps from the kitchen. Meanwhile, I’m on my feet for nine hours straight, babysitting a front counter and juggling cranky customers who apparently think I’m the one personally responsible for the global supply chain.”

“So yeah. By the time I walk through the door most nights, I’m wrecked. My legs ache, my back is a tight wire, and I want nothing more than to collapse into the couch and melt into the cushions. And every time, every single time, you’re there.”

“In the kitchen. Humming. Sometimes in those dumb plaid pajama pants, sometimes shirtless because ‘the oven made it hot in here.’ Don’t get me wrong. You look hot without a shirt.”

“And there’s food. Always food.”

“God, it smells so good. It always does.”

“I used to say, ‘Don’t cook for me! I don’t want to be a burden!’ Remember that? And you’d just shrug and go, ‘Had leftovers anyway.’ Or, ‘Made too much, figured you’d want some.’”

“I always want some.”

“You make these thick, buttery pastas. Creamy sauces that cling to every bite. Those garlic-butter rolls that practically dissolve in my mouth. God, the stew last week? I nearly moaned.”

“You spoil me. And I keep telling myself I’ll return the favor. Someday. One of these weekends I swear I’ll wake up before you and make French toast or blueberry pancakes or something Pinterest-worthy. But then I sleep in. Or my legs still ache. Or I just want to lie there and smell your coffee brewing while the world stays quiet.”

“So, I haven’t cooked for you yet. But I will. Promise.”

“For now, I just want you to know how much I notice.”

“Every time I open that Tupperware you left on the top shelf. Every time I find a post-it note that says ‘last slice is yours :)’ Every time you reheat something and don’t comment when I go back for seconds.”

“I notice.”

“And I appreciate it more than you probably know.”

“You're feeding me more than food, you know that, right? It's comfort. It's care. It's showing up without needing to be asked. And after the kind of days I have? That means everything.”

“Your food... it's rich. Always so flavorful. Heavy in the best way. Stick-to-your-ribs kind of stuff. Not the low-calorie fluff I used to live on before we started dating. I used to microwave dry chicken breasts and call that dinner. Now? Now I'm sinking into meals that taste like they were made by someone who actually wants me full.”

“And maybe... you do.”

“Hey, come here and let me give you a big kiss.”

“’For what?’ How about because you’re the most understanding and devoted boyfriend a girl could ever ask for.”

“Let me change out of my work clothes and have dinner with you. And maybe after we clean up…I could do that thing in the bedroom…that thing you like… to show my appreciation…for always coming home to a hot, steamy homecooked meal.”

“Hmm, would you like that? I thought you might.”

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