She gives him a cooking lesson

Natalie stepped into her bedroom, with her arms full of laundry, and stopped short when her eyes landed on the nightstand.

The small vibrator was still there. Angled awkwardly next to her reading lamp like it belonged. She must’ve left it out after using it the night before, simply forgotten, and casual as can be. It was her go-to choice for a quick release when she didn’t have much time.

It was her room and her nightstand, though. Where else should it be, or why should she care? But she didn’t always close the door. Sometimes she didn’t think to, like now, when she’d stepped out to gather laundry and left it hanging halfway open behind her. And now, standing in the doorway, everything felt all too obvious.

What if he’d walked past? What if he’d seen it?

The thought landed fast and hot in her stomach, not quite shame, not quite a thrill. She moved quickly, and picked it up by the base feeling suddenly self-conscious at the fact of it sitting out, and knowing she hadn’t even wiped it off after finishing with it. Her palm still tingled at the origin of her thoughts of using it earlier this morning.

She walked to her dresser and pulled open the top drawer, nudging aside a folded lace bra and a few pairs of panties. The back of the drawer was already a small gallery of indulgence comprised of sleek silicone, smooth plastic, soft pink, deep purple, curved shapes, veiny replicas, and quiet motors tucked beneath clingy camisoles and satin night slips. A few were rechargeable, some still had batteries. Some had no electronics and they all varied in size, shape, and purpose.

She’d never thought much of it before. They were hers. Private. Part of her single life, just like her routines of moisturizer or yoga.

But now she was tucking the newest one beneath a pile of her most intimate lingerie like it might let her secrets go free in the wild.

She didn’t like feeling the need to hide them. Didn’t like the added step of having to cross the room when the mood hit her in bed. It was a small thing, stupid, really, but it chipped away at something she hadn’t realized she’d grown used to: the ease of being fully alone.

The drawer closed with a soft, almost guilty push.

It’s fine, she told herself. He wouldn’t go looking. He’s not that kind of guy. Right?

But as she turned back toward the bed, she glanced at the door where it stood still cracked open and made a mental note to start closing it. Just in case.

She stood there for a long moment, hand still resting on the drawer, and tried not to imagine what she’d do or say if he had seen it.

Worse… he most likely hadn’t… but a part of her kinda wanted him to?

The thought struck hard, lighting something low in her belly. It still wasn’t quite arousal, nor shame, but she felt a heat nonetheless.

She shook her head, turned away, and grabbed the laundry basket. The rest of the day passed without much to mark it. She did a load of dishes. Sorted through work emails. Unloaded the dishwasher, listening to the soft clink of glasses filling the unusually quiet apartment considering the new ambient level that seemed to exist since he’d moved in.

Aiden walked into the kitchen partway through, grabbed a snack, and mumbled a quick “Hey.”

She answered without looking up, but the moment he turned away, she suddenly became aware of what she was wearing. It was a simple pair of soft shorts, with no bra under her tank top, and her skin still warm and flushed from doing chores and working up a sweat. There wasn’t anything overtly indecent about it, but suddenly felt... exposed, in a way she hadn’t thought to care about before him moving in. The thought that she neglected to put on a bra as old habits surfaced, reminding her to take more care.

Later, as she passed the hallway mirror, she caught her reflection. Hair up, the fabric of her shirt bunching at the dip of her waist. She smoothed it down thinking of him coming out and seeing her, then kept walking.

Having heard the TV come on, Aiden stepped out of his room, stretching one arm overhead and glancing toward the flickering light of the TV. Natalie stood nearby, still in her work pants but barefoot now. She looked like she must’ve just walked in the door and hadn’t even had a chance to get comfortable yet before turning it on.

“You watching something?” he asked, nodding toward the screen.

“Not really,” she said, brushing a loose hair off her forehead. “I was just throwing something on and thinking about what to make for dinner.”

“Cool,” he said, edging toward the kitchen. “And? What’s for dinner?”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m not your mom. I have no idea what you’re having,” She said with a playful tone. “You’ve survived this long without me making your dinner.”

He gave her a mock-wounded look. “Wow. Cold.”

“I’m just saying- when your mom left, you were the one that said you’re not a kid anymore.”

He shifted his stance a little uneasily, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, well… I never said I could cook.”

She turned toward the kitchen, opening a cabinet. “So, you were just gonna hope something appeared?”

“Honestly? That was kind of the plan.”

She shook her head, amused. “You’re pathetic.”

“But hungry,” he added with a helpless shrug. “And pathetic. And giving you my best starving puppy dog eyes right now.”

He widened his gaze in exaggerated innocence, dropping his head slightly like he was looking for sympathy, and a plate. He could only hold it so long before a smile started to creep in.

Natalie didn’t bite. She just crossed her arms and stared him down, unimpressed.

“Don’t weaponize the dimples,” she said. “It won’t work.”

He grinned. “You noticed the dimples?”

“Please,” she said, grabbing a box of pasta off a shelf and held it up. “You want in or not?”

His eyebrows lifted. “You’re inviting me now?”

“I’m inviting you to stir,” she said, tossing the box onto the counter. “And maybe learn something.”

He grinned, stepping closer. “So, this is like a lesson?”

“Call it survival training.”

“Do I get a certificate at the end?”

“If you manage not to burn the kitchen down,” she said, grabbing a pan, “we’ll talk.” She continued moving about the kitchen, grabbing what she needed. “You gonna stand there or actually be useful?” she asked, opening the pantry door.

“I’m here to learn,” he said, holding up his hands. “Teach me, oh wise one.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Start by grabbing a pot. Big one.”

He crossed to the cabinet and crouched to pull one out. “This one?”

“Unless you’re planning to make pasta one noodle at a time, yes, that’s the big one.”

He set it on the stove with a clang after filling it with water. “You’re bossy when you’re hungry.”

“I’m just enjoying the novelty of telling a twenty-year-old what to do,” she said, moving to the fridge.

Aiden grinned as he turned on the tap. “Glad I could help you live the dream.”

“You joke, but it’s weirdly satisfying.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got a little power complex going.”

She smiled without looking at him. “Oh, definitely.”

She slid the vegetables onto the cutting board and glanced sideways. “I’ll give you credit, you follow instructions surprisingly well. It’s kinda cute.”

“Careful,” he said, reaching for the spoon. “You start throwing compliments around and I’ll think it’s a date and expect dessert.”

“You’re lucky I’m letting you eat.”

“Harsh.”

Honest,” she said, nudging him aside gently with her hip as she turned the burner on. “Seriously, are you just watching while I do everything?”

He leaned on the counter and smirked. “That’s kind of my thing. You just told me I’m gonna stir.”

“Not tonight it’s not,” she said, pulling a second cutting board from the drawer and sliding it in front of him. “You’re on zucchini.”

He eyed the vegetable with theatrical skepticism. “It’s weird. Even spelled weird.”

“It’s a vegetable, you’ll live.”

She handed him a knife. “Cut the ends off. Then slice it into coins… like that.” She demonstrated on hers with quick and practiced movements.

Aiden mirrored her, cautious at first, tongue poking out just slightly in concentration.

“Not bad,” she said, glancing sideways. “You’ve held a knife before.”

“Usually it’s to open Amazon boxes.”

She snorted and returned to her own chopping, except this time it was an onion, the blade tapping rhythmically against the wood as she tried to finish it quickly before it made her eyes water too much.

“Watch your fingers,” she told him without looking as he worked the zucchini.

“I’m watching them. They’re terrified.”

“Good. Keep them that way.”

A few minutes passed with nothing but the sound of slicing and the low simmer of oil in the pan. Side by side, they moved in uneven tandem. Her pace was instinctive from years of cooking, his was careful having never sliced a vegetable in his life.

She caught herself watching him out of the corner of her eye. Watching the way he focused and followed her lead without further complaint. And just like that, an uninvited thought quietly crept in.

If her ex had ever stood beside her like this, cutting vegetables, even asking questions, just... showing up, maybe her marriage would've felt different. Maybe she wouldn't have always felt alone.

She pushed the thought away, dropping her eyes back to the cutting board. This wasn’t that. He wasn’t her husband and this wasn’t her marriage. This was her new life, and he was her roommate. She laughed to herself at the notion of a roommate, still adjusting to the reality of it.

But she liked the way the silence felt between them. She liked the sound of him learning next to her. And, maybe most of all, she liked that he hadn’t made a joke of it. He just kept cutting carefully, seemingly present in the moment.

When the water finally started to boil, she nodded toward the stove. “Okay. Now you can throw in the pasta and stir. Slowly. Just enough to keep it from sticking.” It unintentionally came out in her tone a little like she was barking orders.

He gave a mock salute. “Stirring. I’ve trained my whole life for this.”

“Mhm.”

She stepped back, wiping her hands on a paper towel as he stirred. Everything was where it needed to be. The heat on low, sauce thickening, pasta softening. It didn’t need her for a few minutes.

“I’m gonna go change,” she said, already pulling at her top, realizing she was still hadn’t gotten out of her work clothes. “These clothes are suffocating.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, eyes on the pot like he was guarding a perimeter.

She paused in the doorway. “Try not to let anything explode while I’m gone.”

“Mission parameters understood.”

“And don’t touch the heat.”

He straightened a little, still stirring. “Touching heat: prohibited.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You done?”

“For now,” he said, fighting back a grin.

Her lips twitched. “Carry on, soldier.”

“Godspeed, ma’am.”

Her footsteps faded down the hall before the sound of her was lost behind her door.

Beyond it, Aiden couldn’t hear anything. Not over the soft bubbling from the stove, the occasional hiss of sauce along the edge of the pan. He gave the pasta a slow stir, nudging it down into a rolling boil. Checking the sauce, he lowered the heat just a little, like he’d seen her do. Gave it one more stir to keep it from cooking to the bottom.

He was focused. And maybe a little too proud of himself for how not-burned everything still was.

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