Home again, Home again

When we arrived back at Grant's apartment, he asked me if I wanted any help putting away my new clothes. I agreed, but made sure to keep the third set of lingerie hidden from him. I didn't want him to see it until I was fully prepared to give a show.

"What were you thinking for dinner?" Grant asked.

"I wasn't thinking about it at all honestly," I said, "What about you?"

"I'll check what I've got in the fridge," he said, "Unless you want to order takeout."

"I've never really been a fan of takeout. My mother always made food that was tastier and more filling than any takeout I've ever had," I said.

Grant stopped what he was doing for a second, "Do you want to go see your mother?" he asked softly.

I couldn't help but smile. He was trying so hard to be so sweet, that I had **** but to cuddle up against him, "Right now, I want to have some dinner, and then probably go to bed. And then I want to get a little more settled here, figure out a routine, and then I would love for us to go meet my mother."

I could hear the blush in Grant's little, "oh" in response, which only made me smile, and cuddle, harder.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "no takeout means that I am going to have to cook for you I suppose. I can't promise that it will taste as good as what your mother would have made, but I can promise that it will taste like food."

Grant was wrong. It tasted like the precise concentration he showed when measuring out the spices. It tasted like the overprotectiveness that made him keep himself between me and the oil frying on the pan. It tasted like the concern that he showed when asking if I was vegetarian or vegan or anything like that. It tasted like the irrepressible joy on his face when I said I liked it. It tasted like love.

Oh my god, I can't believe I just said that, that was the most cringe I have ever been in my life.