Page 20 of Escape

He appears in the doorway a moment later, his hoody unzipped and his backpack slung over one shoulder. He takes one look at the chaos in the kitchen—the flour-dusted counter, the clutter of spice jars, the rice threatening to boil over—and raises an eyebrow.

“Are you sure it’s not called ‘kitchen disaster’?” he asks, dropping his bag by the table.

I point a wooden spoon at him. “Don’t start with me. This is my grandma’s recipe, and I’m nailing it.”

“Is that so?” he says, leaning against the doorframe with a grin. “Because it looks like the rice is staging a mutiny.”

I whirl around, swearing under my breath as I turn down the heat. The rice settles, but not before a few starchy bubbles escape onto the hob.

“Still counts as nailed it,” I say, turning back to him with a defiant look.

Owen snorts, stepping into the kitchen and peering over my shoulder at the pan of chicken. One of his hands rests on my hips and somehow this innocent touch makes my heart beat faster.

“Alright, I’ll bite. What’s on the menu tonight?” he asks.

“Jerk chicken,” I reply proudly, flipping a piece with a satisfying sizzle. “It's a family favourite.”

He whistles, low and impressed. “Bold move. You sure you’re up for it?”

“Absolutely,” I say, jabbing the wooden spoon in his direction again. “And unless you want to be eating beans on toast, I’d suggest keeping your commentary to a minimum.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, the grin never leaving his face. “Fair enough. I’ll shut up and set the table.”

“Good boy,” I giggle, turning back to the cooker with a smirk.

We settle into a comfortable rhythm, him grabbing plates and cutlery while I focus on not burning the chicken.

“By the way,” he says as he sets down the glasses. “Do I get a thank-you if this turns out edible? Because clearly, my presence in the flat inspired this culinary masterpiece.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You’ll get a thank-you if you do the dishes.”

He pretends to consider it, tapping his chin theatrically. “Deal. But only if there’s dessert.”

“Dessert?” I glance at him over my shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think this is, a Michelin-starred restaurant?”

“Hey, I don’t set the rules,” he says with a shrug. “I’m just here for the free food.”

I playfully roll my eyes at him. “There might be some ice cream in the fridge. Walnut ice cream.” He loves that stuff and you can’t just get it in every supermarket.

“Now I know you love me,” he laughs and his innocent joke makes my cheeks flush. I ignore his words and try to focus on the pots again. The chicken is just about done, the sauce thick and glossy, coating each piece perfectly.

For a moment, I let myself breathe. No heavy conversations, no guilt pressing down on my chest. Just the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of spices, and the sound of Owen teasing me about my cooking… and these unfamiliar butterflies. Maybe, when I let my walls down yesterday, I unknowingly exposed more hidden feelings than I thought.

The plates clatter softly as I stack them on the counter, the warm smell of jerk chicken still hanging in the air. Owen’s beside me, his sleeves rolled up, wiping down the table with an overdramatic flourish.

“That was actually edible,” he says, tossing the cloth onto the counter.

“Actually edible?” I reply, giving him a mock-glare as I grab a sponge. “I just made Grandma’s jerk chicken recipe. That’s borderline sacrilege, Owen.”

He grins, leaning back against the counter with that infuriatingly smug look. “Hey, I’m giving credit where it’s due. I’m even considering a slow clap. It’s not every day you surprise me in the kitchen.”

I laugh despite myself, shaking my head as I rinse a plate. The teasing is easy, familiar, and it almost feels like back before the incident.

“So,” he says, leaning in slightly as I hand him the plate to place in the dishwasher, “does this mean you’ll stop bringing home idiots now?”

I shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”

“You know, those guys you’ve been picking,” he says, waving the towel in my direction. “The ones who clearly skipped the ‘how to not be a complete waste of space’ course.”

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