"Dinner's ready," she said softly, glancing at me with that mix of shyness and lingering heat.
I stood and joined her, sitting close—our thighs brushing under the small table.
I took one bite of the burrito—spicy, flavorful, perfect—and groaned. "This is so good."
She lit up at the compliment, smiling warm. "Really? I'm glad."
We ate in comfortable silence at first, the burritos spicy and perfect, the tinga rich and flavorful. She'd cooked with care, and it showed—every bite hit just right after the day I'd had.
Conversation flowed easy after a while. She talked about the store—"It's okay most days, but some customers… they think they own the place, you know?"—laughing softly when she described the regulars who always flirted too much.
I told her about college—"It's fine, keeps me busy"—keeping it light, dodging details about why I was always "busy."
