Will had bought a packet of tiny edible flowers.
“Don't start,” he said when Eva found them beside the sink.
“I haven't said anything.”
“You inhaled.”
“Flowers require breathing.”
It was Thursday evening, the café closed, Nora gone home. They were testing the last dish for Saturday. Will wanted roasted tomatoes on little pastry squares. Eva wanted something people could pick up without wearing it.
The first batch looked beautiful until Will lifted one.
The bottom stayed on the tray.
“Ah,” he said.
Eva watched a tomato slide from the wreckage onto his shoe.
“An interactive course.”
“I put the filling in too soon.”
“Guests can assemble it themselves. They'll love being given a task.”
He gave her a look. She grinned at him. It felt good to grin without measuring whether she was doing it convincingly.
The second batch used a drier filling and less of it. The pastry survived, but the tomatoes had turned bitter at the edges. Eva tried one and wished she hadn't.
Will watched her face.
“You could use your words.”
“I'd like a glass of water.”
He tried one himself and went straight to the bin.
“Plain bread,” she said. “Good tomatoes. Bowls. Not everything needs a roof.”
He looked at the ruined squares. “I wanted it to be good.”
“It will be. You can cook. You don't have to build a tiny house to prove it.”
That made him laugh. He pulled a loaf from the shelf and took the eggs from the fridge.
“Scrambled?”
“Lots of butter.”
“Bossy.”
“Qualified.”
He put music on his phone, propped against the flour jar. She recognised the song and sang the first line. He winced.
“That isn't the lyric.”
“It is when I sing it.”
They argued over the chorus while he stirred the eggs. Eva cut the bread too thick and he stole a piece from the chopping board, tore it in half and gave her the larger bit.
She noticed. She wished she didn't notice every small kindness as though it had arrived in a foreign language.
They ate at the window table with the lights low. The café was different without customers: the smell of toast, the chairs turned in, nobody trying to get their attention. Will sat with one leg stretched out and his sleeve pushed to the elbow. There was a small scratch on his wrist from one of the trays.
“The menu's simpler now,” Eva said.
“Because we failed.”
“Because we learned.”
“I preferred it when failure involved fewer flowers.”
She picked one flower out of the packet she'd brought to the table and set it on his toast.
“Artisan disappointment.”
“Locally ruined.”
“With seasonal regret.”
He laughed so suddenly that a crumb went down the wrong way. Eva got up for water, laughing too. By the time she came back, he was bent over the table insisting he had everything under control.
She set the glass beside him and left her hand on his shoulder.
His hand came up over hers.
Eva stopped laughing.
She hadn't thought about Ben since the pastry fell apart. Now she thought of him only because she noticed his absence, and then let the thought go.
Will turned towards her. “All right?”
“Yes.”
She bent and kissed him. It was awkward from that angle, and they both moved, and he stood so she didn't have to lean over him. His hand went to her waist.
Eva took her time. She liked the way his thumb moved against her back. She liked that he drew a breath when she touched the side of his face. Here was something she could do because she wanted to, without anyone watching from the harbour.
When they stopped, he was smiling at her from very close.
“No Ben,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“I wanted that.”
“I noticed that too.”
She laughed and pressed her forehead briefly against his collar. He held her. There were dishes on the table and failed pastry in the kitchen. She wanted to stay.
“This doesn't mean I give up my job,” she said into his shirt.
He moved back enough to see her face. “What?”
“Ben said I might work less. I don't want to.”
“You don't have to.”
“I like it. Not everything this week, obviously. But Saturday. The suppers. All the things we said we'd do.”
“Of course.” He brushed her hair back. “You can keep doing them.”
“Even if we're doing this.”
His smile softened. “Especially then.”
She believed him. She wanted that so much: the job, the place, someone who liked her being good at it.
They washed up together. He flicked water at her when she sang the wrong chorus again. She flicked it back and hit the wall. He said they were going to run out of paint at this rate.
Later he walked her home and kissed her outside the door. She asked whether he'd like to come up for tea.
“Actual tea?” he said.
“Actual tea first.”
He looked at her, then smiled.
Upstairs she put the kettle on. Will set two clean mugs on the counter without asking where they were. This time the flat felt new in a way she liked.