Candid Cooking (short story)

The old stove rattled when Lucy flicked the burner on, the flame struggling before catching, blue and steady. The kitchen smelled like dust, old grease, and the lingering trace of her father’s cigarettes, though the man himself was gone for the night. His shift wouldn’t end until morning, which meant the house belonged to her and Davie—at least for a little while.

Lucy exhaled, stretching her arms overhead until her spine cracked, then let them drop lazily around Davie’s waist.

“Alright, Picasso, what’s the masterpiece tonight?” she murmured against his shoulder.

Davie, standing hip-to-hip with her, stirred the pot of instant ramen like it was fine cuisine. “It’s a three-course meal,” he said, grinning. “Starter: slightly expired eggs, fried in way too much oil. Main course: gourmet chicken-flavored noodles, enhanced with—” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled seasoning packet. “Bonus spice.”

Lucy snorted. “Stolen from the gas station?”

“Gifted,” he corrected, smirking. “And for dessert, a fine selection of saltines and peanut butter.”

“A feast fit for royalty.”

“The most broke-ass royalty in the Pacific Northwest.”

She smiled, small and sharp, and nudged his foot with hers. "You're cute when you curse."

The ramen bubbled, steam curling up toward the dim light overhead. They leaned into each other, their hips pressed together like the world could only exist in this small space. Lucy watched the water roil, hypnotized, her fingers tracing idle patterns against Davie’s back.

Her father’s house was always too quiet when he wasn’t in it—like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for him to come back. The kitchen table was covered in unpaid bills, a half-smoked cigarette abandoned in an ashtray. But with Davie here, with his warmth tucked against her side, the place felt less haunted.

“You ever think about what it’d be like,” Davie said, voice low, “to have our own kitchen someday? One with a fridge that isn’t empty half the time?”

Lucy turned her head, resting her temple against his shoulder. “You tryna play house with me, Davie?”

“Maybe.” He nudged her with his hip. “But only if you let me do all the cooking.”

She smirked. “Yeah, ‘cause boiling noodles is real Michelin-star talent.”

“Ouch!” He pressed a dramatic hand to his chest, then turned off the stove and poured the ramen into two chipped bowls. The fried eggs slid on top, slightly burnt at the edges but still edible.

They sat on the couch to eat, knees knocking together, the silence between them easy and safe. Lucy tapped her chopsticks against the edge of her bowl, watching Davie take a bite and hum in approval.

“Not bad,” she admitted.

He swallowed and grinned. “Told you. Five-star dining experience.”

Lucy leaned into him, shoulder against shoulder, warmth against warmth. Outside, the rain beat against the windows, but in here, in this moment, they had enough warmth to fuel the sun... at least for a minute.