I Tripped and Fell in Love With You

Chapter 10: Control

Obito stopped short in the kitchen. The small area was crowded in billowing steam, the waft of makeshift breakfast hash, and Emi bustling about. Swallowed in the comfort of his hoodie, she scrunched up the sleeves and prepared their coffee, wiping down the counters as she went.

Except this time he could see the frayed edge of her jean shorts when she bent over to pick a stray potato cube off the floor. How disappointing. He was more than hoping the image of her naked ass would replace the ones burned into his skull from minutes ago.

She tipped forward, expectantly raising her eyebrows, beckoning for him to finish the story.

Obito coughed. "Anyway, if we could avoid going to gyms in the morning when it's only old people, I would forever be in your debt."

"You'll be old one day, too, Obi."

"At least I'll have the decency to wear a towel when doing that," he said, his whole body shuddering in effort to expel the ghastly images.

Emi turned off the heat to the stovetop and rolled her eyes at him. He drummed his fingers on the table, making sure she was looking at him before he rolled his eyes back at her. She sucked her teeth and lifted the pan's lid. Water droplets slid to the edge, where they clung until their final descent to the skillet, sizzling amongst the oil, peppers, and potatoes.

She spooned the exact amount of sugar he liked into his coffee. A small gesture anyone could replicate, but it caused him to sit in his feelings while he waited for her to finish. The dogpile of emotions throughout their time together weighed on his chest, smothered his lungs, hunkered in his throat. Their irregularity was frightening. Two weeks ago he was a different person. One who couldn't sift through his feelings beyond sad, mad, or the culmination of the two: depressed.

Seeing her make his coffee, get out the condiments he wanted without asking, moving with awareness that he was there. And his expectations of putting away their dirty clothes, sweeping the floor, washing the dishes and knowing where they went. It was routine. It was familiar, like the pain pushing on his ribs. Love bursting forth. The nonsensical high he had in her presence.

He expected these savory smells in the morning. His dad's black coffee. And on the rare occasions when his mom cooked breakfast on the weekends. Emi made herself home in the bereavement they left behind.

She set his coffee and plate in front of him first, then got her own and sat next to him. He hoped she felt as whole, as full, as he did. Embellishing the other's life in a way no one else could.

Obito obliterated the mountain of potatoes with his fork and thought back to the times he'd spent researching well past midnight to better learn her idiosyncrasies.

"Why do you eat the same foods all the time?" he asked. "Do you really like them or is it a Spectrum thing?"

Sputtering, beating on her chest, she swallowed her food with trouble. A playful smile on her lips, eyes brimming in amused tears; she held up three fingers. "I like the taste." She curled in her index finger. "I don't have an oven, so my options are limited, and all the ingredients for this fit in my fridge." She put down her ring finger, effectively flipping him off. "And yes, Autistic people tend to stick to the same foods for comfort."

Obito fixed her, and her finger, with a flat look. "You will be the thorn in my side for all eternity, won't you?"

"You say that like you want to get rid of me."

"Never."

They ate in contemplative silence. One looking forward to his plan coming to fruition, the other mourning her breakfast as it was missing both the fake egg and sausage patty, and thus, was less filling.