Daisy
Since my first visit to Grizz’s apartment building, it’s always felt sterile to me. Everything about it was practical. But today, the second I walk in, it feels homey.
The air is thick with the smell of fresh butter. Garlic. A slow-roasted warmth that makes my stomach clench with hunger and surprise.
“Holy—” I start, then stop because I don’t want to sound like I’ve never encountered a man doing something domestically competent.
Grizz’s mouth quirks. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. He steps back to let me in, big body filling the doorway, and for a beat I just stand there in the threshold letting the smell wrap around me like a cozy blanket.
This is not the scent of takeout containers, which is what I’m used to when we eat at his place.
“Come in,” he says. His voice was built for arenas and back hallways and telling people to stop talking shit. It was built for whispering dirty things to me. “Come, come. Before you freeze in the hallway.”
I blink, realizing I’m still holding my coat close, indicating I’m about to flee, and step inside.
The apartment is warm in deference to the late fall chill, but it’s not just the heat blasting from a vent.
It’s warmth that comes from the setting.
The lights are dimmer than the overhead blaze in my place.
There’s a faint lull of music in the background, soft enough to be nearly nonexistent.
Coupled with the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, the whole space feels lived in and a place where I want to spend time.
Grizz takes my coat and hangs it on the hook by the entry. It’s a gallant move, should be inconsequential, really, but it feels like a nod to the change in our relationship status. My scarf comes off next. My boots thud softly against the floor as I toe them off.
A domestic montage I did not see coming when I first met him. I know for sure Grizz never saw it coming either.
I watch as he moves into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “You hungry?”
“Yes,” I answer as I follow him, then add, because I’m me, “But also mildly concerned you might poison me.”
He lets out a low laugh that’s half scoff, half pleased. “Don’t you worry, I read every step of the recipe very carefully.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling at this new playful banter that’s starting to become normal between us.
I pause for half a second in the entryway of the kitchen and just…
take stock, because Grizz is wearing an apron.
Dark fabric, tied around his waist, the strings knotted in a way that suggests he did it once and decided that was the correct method for all eternity.
His sleeves are pushed up to his strong, bulging forearms, and he’s standing at the stove like he’s been doing this his whole life.
He’s holding a colander over the sink, straining pasta with quick, efficient movements, water steaming up around him. The air is rich with the scent of sautéed vegetables—mushrooms, peppers, onions—sweet and savory and glossy with oil.
He turns back to the stove, a man in the middle of a mission, wooden spoon in hand, stirring with a focus I usually only see on the ice.
“What is happening?” I ask, because my brain can’t find any other words.
He glances over his shoulder, and that grin hits—small but real. “Dinner.”
“No,” I say, stepping closer, eager to verify this isn’t an illusion. “I understand the concept of dinner. I mean you. In an apron. Making said dinner.”
He hums, mildly amused. “You look like you’re about to call the police.”
“I might,” I mutter, leaning in to inhale again, because the aroma is insane. “It is absolutely incredible.”
He does this thing where his shoulders shift like he’s uncomfortable with praise. Like a compliment is a puck he doesn’t know where to put. “Roasted chicken’s in the oven,” he says, changing the subject. “Just needs a couple minutes.”
“You roasted a chicken.”
He looks at me, deadpan. “That’s what I said.”
I blink. “Who are you and what have you done with Grizz McAvoy?”
He snorts, turning back to the pan. “Relax. I didn’t make a soufflé.”
“Don’t say soufflé like you know what that is,” I shoot back.
He points the spoon at me without turning fully around. “You want to eat or you want to interrogate me?”
“Both,” I say instantly.
He laughs again, low and quick, and it stirs emotions inside me, a warm tug that makes me feel like I’m standing too close to something I didn’t mean to touch.
He scoops the sautéed vegetables into a bowl, tosses the pasta in a quick sheen of oil, then opens the oven. He pulls the roasting pan forward with a towel and I catch a glimpse of golden skin, browned edges, juices bubbling at the bottom.
I swear my mouth waters.
He shuts the oven, sets the pan down, and finally turns fully toward me. “Don’t look so shocked,” he says. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m not shocked you can take care of yourself,” I say. “I’m shocked you can take care of… a meal.”
His gaze scans my face, then down to my mouth. “I should kiss that mouth to get you to shut up.”
“That would work for me,” I reply, breathless at the thought of his mouth on mine.
Instead, his eyes twinkle as he grins at me. “Later. But now… we eat.” He shifts back into motion, plating like a man who refuses to linger in a moment that might mean something.
I hover near the drawer with the cutlery.
“Where do you keep—” I start.
“Second drawer,” he says without looking. “Forks on the left.”
“You know where your forks are,” I say, impressed.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “It’s my apartment.”
“Yes, but men like you usually just grab whatever utensil is closest and call it a day.”
He gives me that look. “Men like me?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t,” he says, but he’s smiling now, like he does when he’s about to needle me. “Explain it.”
I open the drawer, pull out two forks, two knives. “Men like you are supposed to live on protein shakes and ramen. And instead, I find that you’ve put significant effort into an amazing meal for me. It’s definitely out of character, not that I’m complaining. In fact, I very much appreciate it.”
“Well, you’re welcome.” He lets out a short laugh, then says, “But let’s be honest… I toiled in the kitchen and I wasn’t even sure if you were going to show up.”
I duck my head, forcing a bland expression. “Whatever do you mean by that?”
I risk a glance his way and find him leaning against the counter, casual on the surface, eyes penetrating. “Let’s just say you’ve got a history.”
“I’m not following,” I reply, turning to face him.
He lifts a skeptical brow, one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Really? You’re going to play dumb when I know damn well how devious you are.”
I snap my finger, eyes rounding in understanding. I knew this was coming. “You mean the Elias thing.”
He points at me, then taps his nose with his index finger. “Ding ding.”
I groan, sliding the cutlery onto plates. “First, that was not my history. That was one specific incident.”
He looks like he’s about to laugh again. “One specific incident where you were a no-show and left me alone with your best friend like it was a social experiment.”
“It was a social experiment,” I mutter, because lying is pointless.
His eyes narrow. “I knew it.”
“Oh please,” I say, trying to sound stern and failing because he’s enjoying himself. “You survived.”
“I did,” he agrees. “Barely.”
He snorts, then returns to the plates, adding a final sprinkle of green garnish over the vegetables. Parsley, probably. He’s basically a Food Network regular from what I see now.
“Okay,” I say, more softly now, because the teasing can’t quite cover the truth blooming in me. “This is… really impressive.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes as he slides one plate toward me. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” I say before I can stop myself.
That makes him glance up, and for a second the kitchen feels smaller, warmer.
Then he clears his throat and lifts his plate. “Come on.”
We walk toward the dining room—the one he almost never uses—and it’s faintly surreal seeing him lead the way as if he does this all the time. Like he doesn’t usually eat standing at the counter or on the couch with a game on mute.
The dining room is dim and quiet, the table too big for two people, the chairs too formal for the way Grizz usually exists in the world. The space seems expectant.
Tonight, it seems, I am that reason.
He sets his plate down and pulls out a chair for me—no fanfare, no performance, just an automatic gesture. Like he doesn’t realize that gesture is doing more to me than any kiss ever could.
I sit, still taking it in. He drops into the chair across from me, posture relaxed, forearms on the table. The apron strings are still tied at his waist, making him look more himself than I’ve ever seen him.
I pick up my fork. “If this is terrible, I’m going to lie and tell you it’s great.”
He smirks. “Liar.”
“Professional,” I correct.
“Eat.” He lifts his fork. “So…” He stabs a piece of zucchini, then looks up. “When were you going to tell me about Los Angeles?”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. I’m surprised by the change in subject. I thought he’d hound me about leaving him alone to deal with Elias, although I stand by my decision to do that. Word from Elias was that the evening turned out to be a success.
“Los Angeles?” I repeat, wide-eyed, innocent. I can play dumb in my sleep.
Grizz doesn’t even blink. He chews, swallows, then sets his fork down with a slow deliberation that sends my nerves into overdrive. “The one benefit of you ditching me and Elias is that he mentioned you got a job offer in LA.”
It figures that my sweet, well-meaning, chaos-gremlin Elias spilled an irrelevant fact over breadsticks.