Page 28 of Knot on the Market

"He probably smells the food," Dean says, crouching down to scratch behind the cat's ears. "Smart guy. This does smell pretty amazing."

The interruption breaks whatever spell we were under, and I find myself grateful for Muffin's timing even as I'm slightly disappointed by it. The moment was getting too intense, moving toward something I'm not sure I'm ready for.

"Okay," Dean says, giving Muffin one final scratch before standing up. "Let's get everything combined and see what we've created."

"I should probably take him back to Mrs. Jones," I say, but Muffin seems perfectly content where he is, now investigating the fascinating smells coming from the stove.

"After dinner," Dean suggests. "He's not causing any trouble, and Mrs. Jones probably knows where he is. Cats have a way of making themselves at home wherever they find good food and company."

For the next few minutes, we focus on bringing the meal together. Dean handles the hot pans while I transfer vegetables and watch him work with the kind of easy competence that suggests this is as natural to him as breathing.

The finished stir-fry looks like something from a restaurant. Colorful, perfectly cooked, smelling like heaven and served over rice that's somehow fluffy and perfect despite coming from my temperamental stove.

"This is amazing," I say after the first bite. "Seriously, I had no idea you could cook like this."

"Told you I stress-cook," Dean says with a grin. "Though I have to admit, this turned out better than usual."

"What's different about tonight?"

Dean's smile turns softer. "Good company, I guess."

The compliment is delivered so naturally that it takes a moment to hit, and when it does, something flutters in my chest.

We eat in comfortable silence, punctuated by small conversations about the meal, about the house. Dean asks about my plans for the space, listens with genuine interest whenI describe my vague ideas about paint colors and furniture arrangements, offers practical suggestions without trying to take over my project.

Muffin settles under the table, occasionally bumping against our legs in hopes of dropped food, adding an unexpectedly domestic touch to the evening.

After dinner, Dean insists on helping with the dishes despite my protests. We work side by side at the sink, and there's something comfortable about the routine. Pass a plate, rinse, dry, stack. Normal. Easy. The kind of domestic partnership I haven't had in longer than I care to admit.

The air around us has settled into something warm and cozy, my scent having calmed from the earlier spike but still mixing pleasantly with his amber and marshmallow. It's intimate in a way I wasn't prepared for, like we're creating our own little atmosphere of contentment and care.

Muffin supervises from his perch on the windowsill, tail twitching with what might be approval.

This is what I've been missing, I realize. Not the grand gestures or public declarations that characterized my last relationship, but this quiet intimacy of shared tasks and comfortable silence. The feeling that someone wants to be in your space not because it benefits them, but because being with you makes ordinary moments feel meaningful.

Turns out "just friends" hits different when he's in your kitchen making everything smell like home.

Though I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have this same domestic comfort with someone like Callum. All that quiet competence focused on more than just emergency repairs. Or Julian's careful attention turned toward understanding what I need instead of studying what I'm running from.

"Thank you," I say as Dean dries the last plate. "For dinner, for the company, for..." I gesture vaguely, trying to encompasseverything about this evening that's made me feel more human than I have in months.

"Thank you for letting me," Dean says simply. "It's been a while since I had someone to cook for."

The admission suggests there's a story there, but before I can ask, Dean is folding the dish towel and hanging it neatly on the oven handle.

"I should probably head out," he says, though he doesn't move toward the door. "Let you get back to whatever you were doing before I invaded your evening. And maybe return your furry dinner guest to his actual home."

"You didn't invade anything," I say quickly. "This was... really nice."

Dean scoops up Muffin, who purrs contentedly in his arms. "Well, this guy certainly made himself comfortable. I think he approves of the evening."

"He's got good taste," I say, reaching over to scratch Muffin's chin. "In food and company."

"Yeah?" Dean's smile turns pleased. "Because I was hoping we could do it again sometime. The cooking thing, I mean. Or whatever."

The "or whatever" is delivered with a slight flush that suggests Dean is thinking about possibilities that extend beyond friendly dinners, and the awareness makes something warm and reckless unfurl in my chest.

"I'd like that," I hear myself say.

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