In the last installment of Forever…
He’s on time.
Not just not late—on time.
9:01 on the dot. Three quick knocks, same rhythm as always.
I open the door, and there he is. Hoodie zipped. Bag slung over his shoulder. Curls dry for once, like he actually left early enough to let them air. He smells like citrus and laundry detergent and intention.
“Hey,” he says, casual. Easy. Like he didn’t pretend not to see me last week in the coffee shop.
“Hey.”
We stand there for a second—just long enough for it to feel like a choice—and then I step aside to let him in.
He walks past me and immediately stops.
Eyes locked on the table.
“You cooked again?”
I try to downplay it. “I had groceries I needed to use.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow. “You meal prep Chicken Piccata now?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
But it is.
There are plates already set. A bottle of wine—opened but not poured. A candle, again. The good napkins, folded without thinking. And the food? Real. Golden brown cutlets. Lemon slices. Chopped parsley. There’s a sauce. A pan sauce.
Patrick turns slowly to look at me.
“You sure this isn’t a date?”
“It’s a Sunday.”
“That’s not a no.”
I busy myself with the wine. “Do you want to eat or not?”
He grins. “You know I do.”
And he does—with enthusiasm. He tears through the Piccata like it’s the best thing he’s had all week. He makes little noises after every bite. He dips his bread into the sauce and says, “You’re really out here trying to seduce me with lemon chicken.”
I don’t deny it.
Not out loud, anyway.
Because maybe I am.
Maybe I spent the whole afternoon Googling “recipes that feel casual but secretly scream intimacy.”
Maybe I thought if I made it good enough, special enough, he’d break the rules again.
Maybe I wanted him to.
Maybe I still do.
We eat.
And like always, Patrick makes it feel like more than just food.
He talks with his mouth half-full, gestures with his fork, moans dramatically after the third bite like I’m a Michelin-star chef who deserves public recognition. It should be annoying. But it’s not.
“I’m just saying,” he says, leaning back, wine glass in hand, “if you ever wanted to drop out and open a bistro, I’d invest.”
“You don’t have any money.”
“I have student loan money,” he says, with a wink. “That’s kind of like real money.”
I smirk. “Yeah, that’s definitely how the economy works.”
He points at me with the last piece of bread. “See? That’s where we balance each other out. I bring the chaos. You bring the disapproving eyebrows.”
“Not disapproving. Just… realistic.”
“Exactly. You’d manage the books. I’d charm the guests.”
“You’d sleep with the guests.”
He laughs. “Only the hot ones.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.
Because he’s relaxed.
Because I am.
Because this feels good.
And I hate how much I want it to mean something.
After dinner, we clear the table together.
He hums while rinsing plates—some soft, indie tune he probably found on a moody playlist at 2AM. I dry. Our shoulders brush once. Then again. And I don’t move away.
When the last glass hits the drying rack, there’s a pause.
That quiet stretch of air where the next decision lives.
He turns toward me. Leans back against the sink. His eyes flick down to my mouth, quick, then back up.
“You trying to get me drunk now too?”
“I poured one glass.”
“One very full glass.”
“I’m not trying anything.”
He smirks. “That’s a lie.”
And I don’t deny it.
Because I am trying.
Trying to keep it cool.
Trying not to care if he notices the candle or the way I shaved today or the fact that I made chicken piccata instead of ordering a pizza.
Trying not to look at his mouth.
But I do.
And he sees me do it.
“Are we gonna pretend we don’t know what’s happening?” he asks, voice low now.
I want to answer. I do. But my throat’s gone tight.
So I kiss him instead.
It’s not frantic.
Not the way it was that first night.
