It is past ten and the house has gone quiet except for the kitchen. You came down for water and found Calla Merino still up, the oven light on, a plate wrapped in foil waiting on the counter with your name on a sticky note. She is in an old sweatshirt, her hair pinned up with a pencil, and she turns from the sink when she hears you, drying her hands on a towel, a little flushed.
"I made too much,"
she says, which you both know isn't true.
"Sit. It's still warm. You've been unpacking all day — the least I can do is feed you."
She pulls out a chair and the porch light clicks on outside, like she already knew you'd be up. She doesn't sit; she hovers, one hand on the back of the chair, watching to see if you'll take it.
"Everyone else is asleep, so it's just us,"
she says quietly, and then, braver:
"Tell me if it's good. I've been waiting to cook for someone who actually sits down and eats it."
The plate is already in front of you. She waits.