Page 27 of Knot on the Market

"The oil," I manage to say, my voice coming out slightly breathless.

"Right," Dean says, his voice rougher than it was a moment ago. But he still doesn't move. "The oil."

We stand there for another heartbeat, close enough that I can count the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough that leaning forward would close the distance between us entirely.

Then the timer for the rice goes off, breaking whatever spell we were under, and Dean steps back with slightly flushed cheeks and a rueful smile.

"Saved by the bell," he says, turning to check the stove.

I go back to chopping vegetables with hands that aren't quite steady, trying to focus on the simple task instead of replaying that moment. The kitchen feels smaller now, charged with something I wasn't expecting when I invited him over for dinner.

I'm hyperaware of the lingering sweetness in the air, my scent still responding to what just happened. Despite my attempts to think practical thoughts about bell peppers and dinner prep. Weeks off scent blockers and my body is alreadybetraying me, advertising exactly how affected I am by Dean's proximity.

This is exactly what I was afraid of. Not Dean specifically, but this feeling. The warm pull of attraction, the way my body seems to fit naturally into the spaces around his, the dangerous comfort of having someone in my kitchen who knows what he's doing and doesn't make me feel inadequate for not knowing it myself.

"How are those peppers coming?" Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder with that easy smile.

"Nearly done," I say, proud of how normal my voice sounds.

"Perfect. The sauce is just about ready for everything to come together."

The metaphor isn't lost on me.

We work in companionable silence for a few more minutes, the kitchen filling with the sounds and scents of a meal being prepared with care. Dean moves around the space with easy confidence, tasting and adjusting seasonings while I finish the vegetables and try not to stare.

"Okay," Dean says eventually, "moment of truth. Want to try the sauce?"

He holds out a wooden spoon with a small amount of what looks like liquid gold, and I step closer to taste it. The first flavor that hits is sweet and savory, followed by a hint of heat and something complex I can't identify.

"Oh my god," I say around the spoon. "That's incredible."

"Yeah?" Dean's face lights up with pleasure at my reaction. "Not too spicy?"

"It's perfect." And it is. Complex enough to be interesting, balanced enough that every flavor comes through clearly. "Seriously, this is restaurant-quality."

"Grandma's secret weapons," Dean says with a grin. "Love and way too much butter."

I laugh, and the sound feels lighter than it has in weeks. "Well, your grandmother was a wise woman."

"She was. She always said the real trick was cooking for people you actually care about." Dean's voice goes softer on the last part, and when I look up at him, there's something in his expression that makes my pulse skip.

He moves to check something on the stove, and we navigate around each other in the small kitchen with a new awareness. When he needs to reach past me for salt, there's a careful politeness to the way he gives me space, like we're both pretending that moment didn't shift something between us.

This is dangerous territory again. The easy intimacy of cooking together, the way he looks at me like I'm someone worth taking care of, the growing awareness that "just friends" might not be accurate.

But instead of panicking, I find myself stepping closer, drawn by the warmth in his eyes and the way his scent seems designed to make me feel safe.

"Dean," I start, though I'm not sure what I'm planning to say.

That's when something furry brushes against my legs, followed by a loud, demanding meow.

I look down to find Muffin, Mrs. Jones's tabby cat, somehow inside my kitchen and weaving between my ankles like he owns the place.

"How did you…" I start, then notice the back door is slightly ajar. "Did I not close that properly?"

Dean chuckles, the tension from the moment before melting into amusement. "Looks like you've got a dinner guest."

Muffin meows again, more insistently this time, and sits directly on my feet in what's clearly a demand for attention.

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