Chapter 3 John
three
John
The wedding is approaching and Bunny's lost her mind.
"Tell her it's none of her fucking business."
"I can't say that! She's going to be family! Then make something up."
"I'm bad at lying! I turn red and giggle nervously. Last time I tried to lie, I ended up confessing to three other things I didn't even do!"
I sigh. "Come over after work. We'll go through the questions together."
"Really? You'd do that?”
“Can't have you confessing to crimes you didn't commit."
She laughs. It's a nice sound. "What's your address?"
I give her directions to my cabin, then spend the day second-guessing myself. My space is mine. I have my buddies over for poker sometimes, but that's different. This is... intimate.
She shows up at 7 PM wearing a pink winter coat that makes her look like cotton candy. She's carrying two bags.
"I brought dinner! Figured you could use a real meal.”
“I cook."
"Heating protein shakes doesn't count." She pushes past me into the cabin, then stops. "Oh."
I see it through her eyes—dark wood, minimal furniture, everything functional. No decorations except the poker table my buddies insisted on.
"It's very... you," she says diplomatically.
"It's efficient."
She unpacks containers on my counter—roast chicken, vegetables, rolls, even a small chocolate cake. "When's the last time someone cooked for you? The guys and I take turns during poker nights."
"That's nice! When's your next one?”
“Tomorrow actually."
"Oh good, you have friends! I was worried you were all alone up here like a hermit."
I watch her bustle around my kitchen, making herself at home. She looks good here, all soft curves and pink energy brightening my dark space.
We eat at my kitchen table. She talks the entire time—about her shop, her regular customers, the kid who tried to pay for candy with a drawing of a dinosaur (she accepted it). I mostly listen, occasionally grunt responses. It's... nice?
"Okay!" She pulls out the questionnaire and a pink pen. "Question one: How did you meet? We've got that. Question two: What's your favorite thing about each other? Your complete inability to shut up."
She throws a roll at me. "Be serious!”
“I am. You fill silence. It's... not unpleasant."
She blinks. "That's sweet. For you. What's my favorite thing about you?"
I consider. "I make you feel safe."
Her breath catches. "Yeah. You do. Question three?"
She reads, turns red. "First kiss location and description. Make it up."
"Um... after our third date? You walked me home and kissed me at my door?”
“Boring. First date. You were nervous, rambling about candy making. I kissed you to shut you up."
She's scarlet now.
"Question four?"
"Pet names for each other." She grins. "I still think Bear is cute.”
“No."
"Fine. I call you John. You call me Little Bunny." She writes it down, cheeks pink. "Question five: How does your partner take their coffee?”
“You don't drink coffee. Hot chocolate with an obscene amount of whipped cream and those tiny marshmallows,” I reply.
She stares. "How do you know that? I've seen you at the coffee shop."
"You've been watching me?”
“I notice patterns. Tactical awareness."
"Right. Tactical." She's smiling. "You take your coffee black, no sugar, no joy.”
“Coffee doesn't need joy."
"Everything needs joy, John."
We work through the questions. Favorite foods (hers: anything sweet, mine: steak). Favorite activities (hers: reading romance novels, mine: not talking to people). Future plans ("Oh god, she's going to ask about marriage and babies!").
"Tell her we're taking it slow," I suggest.
"After two months, she'll expect some discussion."
Finally, we’re done. The sky is dark now and the wind is starting to pick up. The weather forecast mentioned possible snow for tonight, getting worse over the weekend.
Perfect excuse for her to stay a little longer, right?
"Weather's supposed to get bad. You should stay here tonight."
She yawns. It's past 10 PM. "I can drive. It's not snowing yet."
"Yet being the key word. Forecast says it starts around midnight, heavy by morning.”
“I don't want to impose..."
"You're not. Couch is comfortable. Better than you driving down the mountain in a snowstorm."
She looks out the window at the dark sky. "You're sure?"
"Little Bunny." My command voice. "You're staying. That's an order."
She shivers. Not from cold. "You can't just order me around.”
“I just did."
We stare at each other. Something crackling between us.
"Fine," she whispers. "But only because of the snow."
I get her blankets, a pillow, one of my shirts to sleep in. She comes out of the bathroom drowning in flannel, her curves still visible despite the oversized shirt. Her legs are bare, thick thighs that I want to bite.
No. Not going there. This is fake. Saturday only.
"John?" She's curled on my couch, looking small despite her size. "Why did you really agree to this?”
“Told you. My friends—"
"No. The real reason."
I sit in my chair across from her. "You looked desperate in that message. All those emojis and exclamation points.”
“So you felt sorry for me?"
"I felt... responsible. My friends made the profile. You needed help. I don't like bullies, and from what you've said, Patricia's a bully with a wedding planning clipboard."
She smiles. "My hero.”
“Go to sleep, little bunny."
"John?”
“What?"
"On Saturday... if I need you, if it gets too much... with my anxiety.”
“I've got you. No one's going to hurt you while I'm there."
She falls asleep quickly, curled up like a cat. I stay up watching her, this soft, sweet woman who's invaded my space and somehow made it better. My phone buzzes.
Marshall: How's wedding prep going with candy girl?
She's on my couch. Snowstorm coming, told her to stay.
Sure that's why. ?? Twenty bucks says you keep her after Saturday.
I look at Bunny, soft and trusting on my couch, pink cheeks and chocolate-scented hair.
I type: Make it fifty.