3
"Jen, this is sooo good. Like really good," Emma said through a mouthful of food, cheeks puffed slightly, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
I couldn’t help but smile as I watched her. There was something absurdly endearing about the way she held the spoon, nibbling carefully at a piece of baby corn as if it were the most luxurious thing she’d ever eaten.
"I couldn’t agree more with your Mom,” she added, pointing her fork at me with dramatic emphasis. “You really are a star in the kitchen. You should totally be a chef or something.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, still watching her. She didn’t even notice how cute she looked chewing that last piece of baby corn like it was a rare delicacy.
But I couldn’t help myself.
“Now,” I said, leaning slightly across the table, “I need to reassess your age.”
That was all it took.
Half the baby corn launched from her fork like a little yellow missile, flying straight toward my chest. I blinked, stunned for a second, then burst out laughing. Emma’s eyes went wide in mock horror.
“You see what you did?” she cried dramatically. “Because of your teasing, I lost my last baby corn!”
She was frowning, arms crossed like a disappointed toddler—but that only made her more adorable. I stared at her, my grin lingering a little longer than it should’ve.
Damn, I thought. She gives me butterflies just by doing that. Wait—butterflies? Since when do I get butterflies over anything, let alone a girl I’ve only known for a week?
I was still mentally wrestling with that when she stood up, putting her hands on her waist like some sassy sitcom character.
“You’ll have to cook for me again tomorrow.”
There it was again—that bold, confident Emma. The one who didn’t ask but told. Still, the way she looked at me as she said it… I didn’t mind one bit.
“You don’t have to threaten me, Emma,” I teased. “You can just ask.”
She squinted at me playfully, as if deciding whether to let me live or keep me in suspense.
“You know what this means, right?” I said, leaning back with a sly grin. “You literally can’t live without me now.”
She moved closer, and for a second I thought she was going to kiss me. Our faces were just inches apart. I could smell her perfume—something faint and floral. My chest tightened. Her gaze flicked to my lips for a heartbeat, and then she laughed, pulling back with a wicked grin.
“Oh yeah,” she said, turning her back and heading toward the sink, “you’re stuck with me now. Whether you like it or not.”
If only she knew. I had no objections. None.
-----
The next day wasn’t much different.
I was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling again like a teenage cliché, when my phone buzzed.
A message from Emma.
I’m waiting.
I checked the time. 7:03 p.m.
She wasn’t kidding about that cooking thing.
I got up, changed my shirt, and decided to keep my short shorts on. Comfort over fashion.
Three steps and I was already at her door.
She opened it almost instantly, arms crossed.
“Do I really have to text you to come over?”
“Well, hello to you too, neighbor,” I said, breezing past her and heading straight for the kitchen.
“I wonder what happened to Hi and Hello these days,” I continued dramatically, rummaging through her fridge. “They’re still usable, you know. Might even make a comeback if you give them a shot.”
I turned to look at her—and caught her staring. Not at my face. Lower.
“Saw something you like?” I teased.
She jumped like she’d been caught stealing cookies from a jar. “Uhm. Yeah. I mean, no. What are you talking about? Just… just cook, okay?”
She fled to the living room, flipping through channels way too fast to be paying attention.
I grinned as I chopped the veggies.
She was checking me out.
That gave me a little sliver of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t all in my head.
By the time I plated everything, she had recovered from her embarrassment and started setting the table.
“I’m starving,” she muttered, plopping down next to me.
Dinner was quiet at first. Too quiet. She didn’t talk, didn’t even glance in my direction. Maybe she was still mortified. I cleared my throat, trying to break the tension.
“So… do you like it?” I asked cautiously.
She looked up, confused.
“What?” Her voice was soft.
“The food,” I clarified quickly. “Do you like the food?”
Her eyes widened, and then she laughed nervously.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. The food. It’s good. Really good. Did I tell you that you’re an amazing cook?”
She gave me that warm, lopsided smile again—half hidden behind her curtain of hair—and it honestly melted me right where I sat.
-----
It became a routine.
Every evening around seven, I’d knock on Emma’s door, march into her kitchen like I owned it, and cook us dinner. Sometimes she’d help, other times she’d sit on the counter and watch me while chatting about work, music, or whatever she’d seen online that day.
My mom noticed.
One evening she cornered me just as I was heading out, still drying her hands from doing dishes.
“Sweetie,” she said, voice light but curious, “it’s not like I’m unhappy about you making friends—but I need to ask, where are you disappearing to every night?”
I blinked. I hadn’t expected the question. Should I tell her I was spending every evening cooking for our hot neighbor?
“Mom?” I said, trying to stall. “I’ve just been… uh… hanging out next door.”
Her brow lifted. “With Emma?”
I nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. Is that okay?”
To my surprise, she smiled warmly and patted my back.
“Of course it’s okay, honey. I like her. She’s very polite—always greets me when she sees me.”
Wait. What?
“You’ve met her?”
“A few days after she moved in,” my mom said. “We chatted for a bit. Very nice girl.”
I couldn’t hide the smile spreading across my face.
Mom liked her.
That made everything a little easier. A little more real.
I didn’t know exactly what this thing with Emma was yet. Friendship? Something more? All I knew was, I liked being around her. She made me laugh. She made me nervous. She made me feel something.
And if she kept letting me cook for her every night, maybe that something would grow into something bigger.
Maybe, just maybe.
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