(AN: Missed last weeks upload started to watch Scorpions and playing madden 26 got distracted sorry. Uploading 7 chaps today hope you like them. If you find any mistakes let me know I tried to edit and have my wife read the chaps to find mistakes.)
June 25, 1995 – Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Cambridge, MA
Stephen rode his bike to Haymarket with a short list folded in his pocket and sweat already forming under his collar.
The air was hot early, the kind of June heat that didn't wait for noon to start making decisions for you. The streets smelled like bus exhaust and damp brick. His messenger bag bumped against his hip with each pedal stroke. He kept one hand loose on the handlebar, the other steady, eyes scanning potholes and parked cars the way he scanned logs, quick and automatic.
Haymarket was already loud.
Vendors called out prices like they were arguing with the sky. Crates of fruit sat stacked at angles that looked unstable but held anyway. People moved through narrow lanes between stalls, shoulders bumping, elbows tight, small collisions followed by half apologies that sounded like habits, not sincerity.
Stephen stopped at a produce stand first. Peaches sat in a shallow wooden crate, some bruised, some too firm, some trying too hard to look perfect. He picked one up, turned it once in his hand, and set it back. He picked another. This one had a small soft spot near the stem. He didn't reject it. He bought it.
The vendor watched him with the wary patience of someone who had seen too many students ask for a discount like it was a moral right.
"You want 'em pretty or you want 'em good," the man asked.
Stephen looked up. "Good."
The vendor nodded, satisfied, and bagged them without further commentary.
Stephen moved down the row. Tomatoes, not glossy ones, the ones that smelled like something when he lifted the lid of the box. Garlic by the braid. Basil that looked tired at the edges and still smelled alive. He bought chicken from a stall that sold meat like it was a serious business, no jokes, no flirting. The man behind the counter wrapped it in paper and looked Stephen over like he was deciding whether Stephen knew what he was doing.
Stephen paid, took the package, and didn't give the man anything to work with.
He found rice at the small market tucked to the side, the kind of place that didn't have room for browsing. He bought what he needed, added a small bottle of oil because the dorm kitchen supply had been unreliable all week, and stepped back into the street with his bag heavier and his shirt sticking to his back.
He rode back slowly. Heat and a loaded bag made speed a bad idea. He kept his bike steady through Cambridge traffic and felt the city pressing summer into everything, even the concrete.
MacGregor House looked half packed already. Boxes sat in the hallway outside some rooms. Somebody had taped a handwritten sign to the elevator: PLEASE DO NOT MOVE MY STUFF, THANKS. A passive threat disguised as courtesy.
Stephen climbed the stairs instead.
The kitchenette on his floor was small enough that two people had to negotiate space without speaking. The fan in the window worked when it wanted to. The stove burners ran uneven. The counter had old knife marks and a sticky spot near the edge nobody admitted responsibility for.
Stephen set his bag down, washed his hands, and pulled the ingredients out one by one. He lined them up along the counter, not like a lab bench, just so he wouldn't knock something off while he turned. The chicken went into the fridge first. The peaches sat on the windowsill out of direct sun.
He started with rice because rice didn't care about emotion, it cared about timing.
He measured water by eye, then adjusted by touch, a small correction with his fingers against the inside of the pot like he could feel the level better than he could see it. He set it to simmer and turned the burner down, listening for the shift in sound. The fan rattled once. He ignored it.
He chopped garlic and tomatoes, wiped the blade, and sliced the chicken into pieces that would cook evenly in a pan that did not respect heat distribution. He salted, not heavy, not timid. He added pepper, not too much. He didn't perform. He just cooked.
The heat made his forearms slick. Sweat rolled down his back in thin lines. He stayed calm anyway. He moved around the cramped space like he knew every inch of it, because he did. He'd learned the stove's lies. He'd learned which burner ran hotter and which one ran stubborn. He'd learned how to make something good in a place that wasn't designed for it.
He checked the clock, not obsessively, just enough to keep the meal landing when Paige walked in.
Paige's birthday dinner in a dorm kitchenette was not a grand gesture. It wasn't supposed to be. It was supposed to be hers.
Stephen reached for the phone, hesitated, then dialed anyway.
Meemaw answered on the second ring, voice awake and mildly suspicious. "Honey, you callin' me to confess to a crime."
Stephen looked at the pan. "No crime."
"Then why are you interruptin' my television," Meemaw said. He heard a faint game show jingle behind her. "What's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong," Stephen said, then corrected himself because she'd trained him out of that reflex. "I'm cooking."
Meemaw made a noise like she'd been waiting for that sentence for years. "Look at you. What're you makin'."
"Chicken. Rice. Tomatoes. Garlic. Basil," Stephen said.
"That ain't a meal," Meemaw replied. "That's a list."
Stephen watched the oil shimmer in the pan. "It'll be a meal."
"For who," Meemaw asked, though he knew she already knew.
"Paige," Stephen said.
Meemaw let the silence stretch just enough to make him feel it. "Well. That's sweet."
"It's practical," Stephen tried.
Meemaw snorted. "Don't you 'practical' me. It's her birthday, Honey. You're allowed to do somethin' just because you want to."
Stephen's grip tightened slightly on the receiver. "I do want to."
"Good," Meemaw said. "Now listen. Don't overthink it. Don't burn nothin' tryin' to prove you got a heart. She already knows you got one. It's just… buried under all that brain."
Stephen felt his mouth twitch. "Yes, ma'am."
"You got dessert," Meemaw asked.
"I got peaches."
Meemaw made a pleased sound. "Alright. Cut 'em, little bit of sugar, let 'em sit. If you got cinnamon, toss a pinch. Not a teaspoon, Honey, a pinch. You hear me."
"I hear you," Stephen said.
"And stop hoverin' over the pan like it's gonna run off," Meemaw added.
"It won't," Stephen said.
"It might," Meemaw replied, dead serious. "You boys get so intense you scare food into misbehavin'."
Stephen exhaled, half laugh, half surrender. "Okay."
Meemaw's tone softened a fraction, not sentimental, just warmer. "You call me later and tell me if she liked it."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Love you," Meemaw said.
"Love you," Stephen replied.
He hung up and set the receiver down carefully. The kitchen felt louder afterward, not because anything changed, because he'd heard her voice and now the quiet had edges again.
He went back to the stove.
Chicken hit the pan with a quick hiss. He didn't flinch. He let it sear. He didn't poke it too early. When it released clean, he turned it, kept the heat controlled, and added garlic at the right moment so it didn't go bitter. Tomatoes followed, then basil, then a splash of water to pull the browned bits up from the bottom.
The smell filled the kitchenette fast. Real food smell, not ramen steam, not burnt popcorn. It crept down the hallway.
Stephen cut the peaches into wedges and tossed them in a bowl with a little sugar and a pinch of cinnamon because Meemaw would know if he didn't. He set the bowl aside, covered it with a plate because fruit in dorm kitchens attracted witnesses.
He wiped the counter again and caught himself. He stopped wiping. He didn't need to polish the place into a shrine.
The door opened mid-stir.
Paige walked in carrying a stack of papers and a small box under her arm. She stopped just inside the kitchenette doorway, eyes going to the pan, then to him, then to the bowl covered like it was hiding something.
"What are you doing," Paige asked.
Stephen kept stirring. "Cooking."
Paige's eyebrows lifted. "On purpose."
Stephen glanced at her papers. "You're working on your birthday."
Paige stepped closer. "I'm not working. I'm finishing. There's a difference."
Stephen nodded toward the counter. "Put it down."
Paige set the papers carefully away from the stove, then turned back to him. Her expression sharpened into teasing. "You're being serious."
"Only on even-numbered days," Stephen said.
Paige looked at the pan again. "What is it."
"Chicken and rice," Stephen said.
Paige leaned closer, inhaled once, then straightened like she refused to be impressed too early. "That smells… unfair."
Stephen shrugged with one shoulder, still stirring. "Heat helps."
Paige's eyes flicked to the thermometer on the counter, then to the measuring spoon set beside it. "You brought equipment."
Stephen didn't look away from the pan. "It's not equipment. It's a thermometer."
"That's equipment," Paige said.
Stephen finally looked at her. "Do you want to be hungry or do you want to mock me."
Paige's mouth twitched. "Both."
Stephen pointed at the sink. "Wash your hands if you're helping."
Paige blinked. "I'm helping."
"You're here," Stephen said. "That counts."
Paige turned on the water, washed quickly, then grabbed a towel and dried her hands without waiting for instructions. She tied her hair up with an elastic she pulled off her wrist and stepped back into the kitchenette like she belonged there, which she did.
"What do you need," Paige asked.
Stephen handed her the cutting board. "Plates."
Paige moved around him without bumping. The space was tight. They both knew how to shift without turning it into a dance. Plates came out. Forks. Two cups.
The food finished fast once Paige arrived, not because she did anything magical, because she brought momentum with her. Stephen plated the chicken and rice, added the tomato mixture on top, then sat the plates on the counter like he was setting down something fragile.
Paige took one bite standing up, then paused.
Stephen watched her face and kept his own blank on purpose.
Paige swallowed and nodded once. "Okay."
Stephen waited.
Paige took another bite. "This is good."
Stephen exhaled slowly through his nose. "Good."
Paige pointed her fork at him. "You practiced."
Stephen shook his head. "I called Meemaw."
Paige's eyes widened just enough to show she was pleased, then she covered it immediately. "You cheated."
"I consulted," Stephen corrected.
"That's cheating with better wording," Paige said, then sat down with her plate on the windowsill ledge because the kitchenette table was too small and the windowsill had become their unofficial dining spot.
Stephen sat beside her. The fan rattled again. The window was cracked for air. Outside, the sky was turning orange at the edges, the kind of sunset that pretended summer wasn't exhausting.
They ate quietly for a few minutes, not an awkward quiet, just eating quietly. Paige nudged his knee once with hers under the ledge and didn't look at him when she did it.
A knock came on the kitchenette doorframe.
Eugene leaned in with a paper bag held in both hands like he'd stolen it from a bakery under threat. "I have arrived as a minor character bearing tribute."
Paige turned. "Eugene."
Eugene stepped in one foot, then stopped like stepping further might make it too intimate. "Happy birthday," he said, too fast. "I made you something."
He pulled out a small stapled booklet and held it out with both hands.
Paige took it, flipped the cover. A handmade coupon book in Eugene's handwriting.
COUPONS: REDEEMABLE FOR SERVICES RENDERED BY EUGENE STRANGE
One free coffee run. One free debug assistance. One free "I will stand nearby while you argue with Stephen." One free "emergency distraction."
Paige stared at it, then looked up. "This is ridiculous."
Eugene nodded hard. "Correct."
Paige's mouth twitched. "Thank you."
Eugene's face went pink. "Okay. Great. I'm leaving now before this becomes emotionally damaging."
He backed out like the room might explode and disappeared down the hall.
Paige set the coupon book beside her plate and looked at Stephen. "He's sweet."
"He's loud," Stephen replied.
"Both," Paige said.
They finished dinner. Stephen washed dishes. Paige tried to help and got in the way twice, then leaned against the counter with her arms crossed like she'd decided supervision counted as contribution.
When the last plate was rinsed and set on the rack, Paige reached out and grabbed the dish towel out of Stephen's hand.
"Stop," Paige said.
Stephen looked at her fingers around the towel. "I'm drying."
"You're hiding," Paige said.
Stephen didn't answer right away. Paige waited anyway, close enough that he could feel her presence and couldn't pretend it was just a conversation.
"I wanted to do it," Stephen said finally.
Paige's expression softened for a second and she tried to cover it with a joke. "You didn't have to."
"I know," Stephen said. "That's why it matters."
Paige stared at him like she was deciding whether to argue. She didn't. She stepped in and kissed him, quick at first, then longer, then pulled back just enough to speak.
"Happy birthday to me," Paige said.
Stephen's mouth twitched. "Yes."
They ended up on the roof later because Paige always needed air after anything that felt too much.
The city was loud even at night, but up there it was distant. The roof tar still held heat from the day. Paige sat with her knees pulled up and leaned her head against Stephen's shoulder like it was normal. Stephen let it be normal.
"You're leaving for Virginia," Paige said.
Stephen nodded. "Quantico."
Paige looked up at him. "Hwang already decided for you."
Stephen's mouth twitched. "Confidentiality is dead."
"It's MIT," Paige said. "Confidentiality is a rumor."
Stephen stared out over the lights. "I'll be gone a few weeks."
Paige nodded once. "I'll keep Mosaic stable."
Stephen turned his head slightly. "Stable as in maintenance."
Paige bumped her shoulder into his. "Stable as in I'm not letting anyone treat it like a vending machine while you're gone."
Stephen let his breath out slowly. "Thank you."
Paige's voice stayed casual. "You owe me a call that respects time zones."
"I can do that," Stephen said.
Paige's mouth twitched. "You better."
They sat in silence for a while, not trying to make it meaningful. The wind shifted once. A door below slammed. Someone laughed somewhere in the distance.
Stephen went back inside with Paige. He didn't turn it into a speech. He didn't write a motto about thresholds.
Later, when Paige was asleep, he sat at his desk and opened his notebook anyway. He wrote one line, small and plain.
Ask before you push.
Stephen closed the notebook and clicked off the lamp.
(Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.)