I stood in the kitchen of as evening deepened outside, moonlight spilling silver through the windows and glinting off the copper pots dangling above the island.
The scent of sizzling garlic and fresh herbs hung thick in the air, mingling with the rich steam rising from the stove where I'd simmered a simple chicken soup—tender shreds of meat floating in golden broth, carrots cut into bright coins, celery and onion softened sweet, a pinch of thyme adding earthy warmth.
Nearby, a tray held grilled cheese sandwiches with crusts toasted golden-crisp, cheddar oozing melty when pressed, sliced apples fanned out for tart contrast, and fluffy biscuits I'd baked earlier, slathered in butter.
Raven hair tied back tight in a low bun, sleeves rolled on my simple blouse, apron dusted with flour from the effort—dinner honoured our game bet—five dishes, not her cheeky ten, but this late supper was pure care, her bandaged hand still awkward from the mug mishap.
From the living room, firelight flickered orange over the place where Hellen slouched, her good hand scrolling her phone nonstop—factory emails, hire lists, supplier pings, no doubt, ignoring my earlier nagging.
With a sigh, I wiped floury hands on my towel, strode over, and snatched the device mid-swipe, placing it face-down on the coffee table beside scattered coasters, game controllers, and a half-empty wine bottle from earlier.
"What are you trying to do?" she asked, eyes snapping up sharp, blonde waves loose and tousled over her rumpled gray sweater, long legs stretched casual on the ottoman.
"I'm taking this away until your hand mends," I said firmly, arms crossed over my chest. "You were nagging me about the work. Yet, you are doing the same. No work, no endless scrolling. Rest, or I'll hide it in the cellar."
"Emily, come on—I need it," she protested mildly, leaning forward as if to grab, but I danced back a step. "Reports are piling up, hires need to be confirmed by me. I can't just vanish."
"Right now, you need exactly one thing—sit there looking harmless while I finish supper." My tone left no room, eyes locking hers with a mix of play and steel.
She let out a soft huff, sinking deeper into the cushions with mock surrender. "Fine..."
Pleased, I returned to the kitchen, plating the soup into wide bowls still steaming hot, cutting sandwiches diagonal for easy bites, arranging apples neat, biscuits warm and flaky.
Tray balanced steady, I carried it back, setting it down on the low table with a gentle thud—savoury aromas blooming full, my own stomach giving a quiet growl despite the focus.
Hellen glanced at the spread, spoon hovering unsure. "I'm really not hungry."
"Not up for debate," I replied quick, ladling soup into her bowl first. "You crushed that mug, lost every game, gave me a heart attack—eat up or face the wrath. Besides, I haven't cooked anything heavy."
She tried her left hand—right one bulky under bandage—fingers clumsy around the spoon, broth sloshing back into the bowl without reaching her mouth. A grimace crossed her face, pride clearly stung by the fail.
"Hellen, quit it," I said soft but sure, plucking the spoon from her loose grip. "Let me feed you. No fussing."
Her eyebrows jumped, faint pink touching her cheeks. "You? I can do that myself, Emily."
"Damn right. Are you feeling shy? Perfect—maybe next time don't break cups by applying too much pressure on it." I scooped a careful spoonful of soup, blew off the rising steam, and held it near her lips, steady as could be.
"I can manage alone," she grumbled stubborn, left-hand twitching like proof, but it flopped weak.
"Sure? That splash said otherwise. Come on—open." Spoon poised right at her mouth, broth gleaming inviting.
Her eyes shadowed a touch darker—intensity flaring brief, stare drilling into my ones—jaw clenching a second before her lips parted slow. "Fine, do your thing."
"Just helping a friend," I said plain, easing the spoon in gentle—her swallow quiet, lips brushing metal soft.
"Friend?" she echoed, voice low like testing waters, but she tilted forward for the next bite, shoulders loosening bit by bit. "Yeah, fine," she gave in after the third spoonful, mouth opening easier now, tension melting as I switched to sandwich—crisp bite, cheese stretching gooey strings.
"So, how did I do?"
"Not terrible, cook."
"Hey! I look really good! Remember that day when you praised me for the first time?"
"I do remember, Emily. Those were some good stuff."
I grinned wide, finding a steady rhythm as I fed her—soup sliding warm down her throat, apples snapping crisp between her teeth with a satisfying crunch, biscuits flaking apart soft and buttery on her tongue.
The firelight played across her face, softening the sharp lines of her cheekbones, her eyes half-lidded now in quiet surrender to the meal.
Hellen chewed slow, almost thoughtful, the tension from her injured hand melting away bite by bite, the whole place wrapped in that deep evening hush broken only by the fireplace's low pops and the faint creak of the old house settling.
Her phone stayed dark on the table, forgotten amid our dinner.
Satisfied she'd had enough, I set her bowl down and reached for my own bowl, the golden broth still steaming gently.
Without thinking much of it, I scooped up a bite from the same spoon and swallowed it down easy, the pleasing heat blooming familiar on my tongue.
Hellen's eyes snapped open fully then, locking on me with a flicker of surprise, her bandaged hand twitching slight on her lap. "Emily?" she said, voice low and a touch rough, like she'd caught me in something private. "Why are you using the same spoon you fed me with?"
I paused mid-sip, spoon hovering, heat creeping up my neck—not quite blush, but close—as I met her gaze. The question hung simple in the firelit air, her stare holding mine steady, curious and unguarded.
"What, this?" I said, glancing at the spoon with a casual shrug, though my pulse ticked a beat faster. "Didn't think twice. We're past separate spoons by now, aren't we? One spoon's practical. Saves washing."
She didn't laugh or brush it off right away. Instead, her lips parted slight, like she was turning the words over, blonde waves shifting as she tilted her head.
"Practical," she echoed soft, almost testing, a faint curve tugging one corner of her mouth. But her eyes stayed intense, that flicker lingering from earlier, as if the shared metal carried more weight than I'd meant.
Did I do something wrong? Why was she looking at me like that?
I held her look, spoon twirling idle in my fingers, the broth's steam curling between us. "Yeah. Or call it partner privilege. You've carried me; I feed you. It's a fair trade for both of us."
I took another deliberate sip from it then, slow and unhurried, letting the normalcy settle in.