Page 22 of The Boss

"You don't get to decide that for me," she says quietly. "I get to decide if I'm scared."

I wrap my arms around her, and we stay like that — not talking, not undressing, just breathing each other in — until the tightness in my chest finally loosens.

It's not sex. It's better.

I crack another egg into the bowl and watch Vivian steal a piece of bacon from the plate I just finished arranging. She's wearing my shirt from last night, the sleeves rolled up past her wrists, and her hair falls in waves over one shoulder.

"You're supposed to wait until it's on the table," I say.

"I'm quality control." She takes another piece. "This one's too crispy."

"They're all the same level of crispy."

"Exactly. Too crispy." She bumps my hip with hers as she reaches for the salt. "Your eggs are going to be rubber if you keep whisking them like that."

I look down at the bowl. The eggs are definitely overworked. "I know how to scramble eggs."

"Clearly." She takes the whisk from my hand and adds a splash of cream. "Low heat, gentle folds. You don't beat them into submission."

"I don't beat anything into submission."

"Right. You just stare at it until it complies."

She's not wrong. I watch her pour the eggs into the pan, the way her fingers adjust the flame without looking, how she tilts the pan to distribute everything evenly. There's something deeply satisfying about watching someone who knows what they're doing, even if it's just breakfast.

"Coffee's ready," she says, nodding toward the machine.

I pour two mugs and slide one across the counter to her. She wraps both hands around it, inhaling the steam, and closes her eyes for a second.

"What?" she asks.

"Nothing. You just look comfortable."

"In your brother's kitchen wearing your shirt? I'm the definition of comfortable."

"You know what I mean."

The past week has been the longest stretch of time I've spent with another person without wanting space. We've fallen into routines I didn't know I wanted—coffee before work, takeout on the couch, her falling asleep reading while I answer emails.

It's domestic in a way that should feel strange but doesn't. And the most important part? I don't feel inclined to work overtime anymore.

"Hand me a plate," she says.

I reach over her head to grab two from the cabinet, my chest brushing her back. For a moment, we're just standing there, her leaning back into me while eggs cook in the pan.

It occurs to me that this might be the most relaxed I've ever been in my life.

"Matthew."

"Yeah?"

"The eggs are burning."

I grab the spatula and rescue breakfast while she laughs at me. The eggs are slightly brown on the bottom, but not ruined. She slides them onto plates with the bacon and sets them on the counter.

"See? Gentle folds," she says, taking a bite. "Though I suppose slightly charred adds character."

"Everything I cook has character then."