Epilogue

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Six months later


"Pedge." I called out from the living room as I heard something fall and clatter onto the floor in the kitchen.

"Yes..." He sang out, voice lilting into an impish falsetto.

"Are you sure you don't need any help?" I asked, eager to turn around and take in the state of the kitchen even after he had ordered me to sit on the couch and not turn around.

"Positive."

I let out a grunt of protest, letting my head fall back against the couch.

There were a few more echoes of silverware being launched into the sink, and a couple muttered fucks, then his footsteps were padding against the hardwood, and he was standing in front of me, beaming, his smile wide enough that his eyes disappeared into his cheeks, that dimple etching itself into his patchy scruff. In his hands was a plate of scrambled eggs and two pieces of toast that he was holding out like an offering.

He was so cute I felt my heart clench in my chest.

"Ta-da." He crooned, sitting down next to me, and pushing the plate forward, until I took it and placed it on my lap.

"Where's your plate?" I asked, about to glance back into the kitchen before his hand shot out and cupped my cheek, keeping me from turning around.

"Don't worry about it." He gestured down to the plate in my lap. "Eat."

"You burnt the rest, didn't you?"

His cheeks visibly burned for a moment before he shook his head and gestured to the plate again.

He'd been trying to master some basic dishes over the past few months. I'd told him time and time again that it wasn't necessary, but he insisted, forcing me to give in and let him take over the kitchen at least once a week. When I'd asked him why he suddenly felt such a strong gravitation to cooking he'd just shrugged, eyes squinting as he tried to read a recipe from his phone without his glasses on. "I'm forty-eight years old and the only thing I know how to make is frozen pizza, I should be able to cook for you when you don't feel like doing it, querida."

I'd known then that there was no changing his mind.

I picked up the fork that was perched on the edge of the plate and stabbed at the eggs, feeling Pedro watching me intently as I brought the utensil to my mouth.

"Verdict?" He asked as I chewed, my eyes widening as I looked up at him.

"Very good! Not too wet, not too rubbery, perfect consistency."

He beamed, sitting up a bit straighter, like my approval had snapped right through his spine.

"Here, have some." I urged, trying to push the plate toward him even as he shook his head and stood up.

"Eat, cariño. I need to clean up the kitchen."

I would've tried to insist, but I was hungry, and the eggs were actually very good.

"Oh," Pedro called from the kitchen, speaking over the sound of the water running, "I picked up a copy of the Times article while I was at the store. I'm not sure if you wanted a physical copy, but it's here with the groceries..." He paused for a minute, "I can also toss it if it's triggering."

"No, keep it." I called back after swallowing a mouthful of toast. "Let's frame the part where it mentions that Tommy has been permanently banned from the MLB."

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