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May usually considered herself a good gift-giver.
It was something that she enjoyed. Friends, family; she always had gifts sorted out well before the deadline, despite her usual tendency to be late to things. May had gift-giving down to as much of a science as she ever had anything down to.
And yet, year after year, there was one person that she consistently couldn’t find a good-enough gift for.
From where she sat on the couch, May could see him in their kitchen, stirring something fragrant in a worn-out saucepan; the heavenly scent of butter, olive oil, minced garlic, and meticulously chopped onions all intermingled with the scent of winter pine and a lit cinnamon-spice candle. As he cooked, Drew hummed and murmured along to songs he half-remembered that played on the portable radio that sat atop the kitchen counter. Various sounds filled in the spaces between his soft, mumbled voice and the crackle of the radio; the taps of a spoon against the rim of the saucepan, the gentle scrape of the blunt end of a knife dragged sideways against a cutting board as Drew slid chopped vegetables into the mixture, and the sizzle as they hit the hot oil and butter at the bottom.
May loved watching him cook. He fell into his own rhythm, a fluid comfort that she doubted anyone else had ever truly seen in the same way that she got to, every day. It was a relaxed, slightly messier version of him— one whose hair was a bit askew in places, a version of him who hadn’t gotten out of his pajamas all day, who wore fuzzy socks and hummed slightly off-tune to Coldplay and tossed bits of food to Absol, who stretched out across the kitchen’s cool white tile.
It was a perfect balance. Comfortably quiet yet comfortably filled with small noises, intimately secluded but never lonely, decorated with holiday adornments and the same everyday comforts they’d chosen and placed together, and filled with the scent of almost-Christmas and almost-dinner. The mismatch of scents and sounds and sights all blended together into home.
What gift could May get Drew that would be worth even a fraction of what that all meant to her?
In an act of mindless anxiety, she twisted the engagement ring on her finger. It was a shiny new habit, but it felt as familiar as picking at her own nails. He had an engagement band, too; she loved the feel of it on her skin, the sound of it as he picked up random objects or turned doorknobs. She loved how it matched hers, how the light rose gold glinted against his skin. Everything about it felt right.
A stray, anxious heartbeat flipped in May’s chest. As Drew’s now-fianceé, if anyone would know what to give him, it would be her.
Or it should have been her, at least.
May reached for her phone on the coffee table, careful to not disturb the resting Pokémon near her. On the other end of the couch, across May’s feet and on top of a stray corner of the well-loved cashmere blanket that had been a pricey housewarming gift from Dawn, Delcatty was curled up, and draped across the back of the couch, Masquerain’s wings twitched in its sleep.
May opened the online store that she’d been aimlessly scrolling through before, in futile hopes that she’d magically see something perfect. It was a random shot in the dark at that point, but May had exhausted all of her other options.
But as she’d unfortunately expected, nothing caught her eye.
A sigh escaped her lips, falling heavy out of her lungs and leaving an anxious void where the inhale had once sat.
“Doing okay, over there?” Drew asked from the kitchen, over top the noise of the radio and his cooking.
“Hm? Yeah, I’m fine. Just— it’s fine,” she dismissed.
She heard the soft beeps of their oven as Drew set a timer. The saucepan’s lid, slightly warped with age and use, clanged and rattled as he laid it atop the rim, as even as it would get. Drew gathered the ingredients and utensils that he’d used and put them wherever they belonged— he always cleaned as he went along.
“How about you?” May asked.
“I don’t believe your answer, but other than that, I’m good,” he responded. The faintest hitch of strain threaded through his voice as he reached and put a small jar of spices on the top shelf of the cabinet.
May watched, content and shameless, as the motion tugged his sweater upwards, revealing a sliver of skin between the band of his sweatpants and the hem of his shirt. If the moment had been less fleeting and if May had felt like getting up, it would have been a fun place to brush her cold hand against, flattening her palm against the small of his back; but this time, he’d unknowingly escaped unscathed.
At least there would be many next times. Sudden cold hands on warm skin were the most loving form of domestic torture, after all; skin-sought intimacy in the form of affectionate annoyance.
May put her phone down and tugged the sleeves of her own sweater down over her chilly hands.
“What are you making?” she asked, watching from the couch as he finished wiping off the counter.
“That pasta you really like, with the béchamel-based sauce and the veggies.” As he spoke, he glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled as he watched her face light up. “I know it’s better with homegrown vegetables and it’s December, so we don’t have any. But I thought it’d still be nice on a cold evening like this, so I got some produce when I went to the store earlier. In a little bit, I’m going to deglaze the pan with a pinot grigio— Paldean, aged for a few years. Do you want a glass?”
“I would absolutely love that. Pour yourself one, too, and come sit next to me. I’m cold.”
“Okay, but only if you keep your cold hands to yourself,” he warned playfully.
“What? How dare you accuse me of such a thing. I would never even think to put my cold hands on you, even though you’re probably super warm because you’ve been moving around in the kitchen. What a baseless accusation. I would never.”
“I somehow doubt that,” he teased, easing the cork out of the wine bottle.
May removed the blanket for a moment and gently extracted her feet out from where Delcatty slept. “Says the man who sleeps with his cold hands around me and up the front of my shirt every time he’s the big spoon.”
She scooted to the side, making room for Drew as he approached with two wine glasses in hand.
“I’ll sleep with my hands to myself, then.”
She pouted. “You don’t need to do that, just warm them up a bit first.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled.
“Noted.”
She took her glass from him and tucked her legs up on the couch under the blanket as he situated himself right next to her. She let her knees fall on his leg. He leaned back comfortably, letting one arm fall across her shoulders as he took a sip of his wine.
For a moment, they were silent.
May had grown fond of this type of silence.
She sipped her wine. It was quite good, but that was no surprise— Drew was good at wine. Which May wouldn’t have thought was a thing that one could be good at, but he proved that it was. He saw wine the same way he saw a contest appeal; deep, layered, full of complexities that only a trained eye could truly pick up on. He tasted the differences between varietals in ways that May could never hope to.
She’d thought about getting him a really nice bottle of wine for Christmas, something nicer than he’d ever justify buying for himself, but she wouldn’t have even known where to start.
May took another sip, trying to taste it the way that she knew Drew could. It was lighter than red wines were, since it was a white wine, and it wasn’t super sweet, but it wasn’t too tart either.
It was good. It tasted like… grapes. And alcohol.
May let her gaze fall down into the glass, staring at her own reflection in the pale golden drink.
Drew, of course, noticed. He was fine-tuned to her every emotion; May felt that it was the best and worst thing about him. He’d learned her with all the detail and effort that he could give, and in many ways she’d done the same, yet she still could never figure out what to give him.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s fine,” she dismissed.
His hand rubbed her shoulder. “I don’t think that’s true.”
She gave him a weak attempt at a smile. “It’s not, but I wish you couldn’t tell, sometimes.”
“Same to you,” he murmured, “But the inconvenience of communicating about our problems is worth solving them. It’s worth this, right here. A certain someone that I love very much taught me that. So, what’s on your mind?”
May rested her glass on the small end table on the other side of the couch’s arm, and with the instinctual ease of breathing, she nestled into Drew’s side; cheek on his shoulder, sides pressed together, his arm falling from her shoulders down to curve around her waist.
Drew kissed the top of her head before taking another sip of his wine.
“It’s a silly problem,” May mumbled a couple seconds later.
“That’s better than a serious one.”
She nervously twisted her ring again, and Drew’s eyes fixated on the motion with a quiet sense of wonder. She felt the firmness of his own ring against her waist through the fabric, a quiet and welcomed interruption to the gentle softness of his hand. Metal, flesh and blood; they were harsh words for a feeling that was even softer than the snowfall out their windows.
May sighed again.
“I never know what to get you for Christmas,” she admitted. “Or your birthday. Or in general.”
“You’re right, that is a silly problem. It’s actually not a problem at all, I always like what you get me.”
“But I’m never sure about it! You’re so good at gift-giving. It’s like you read my mind, but I can never figure anything out for you.”
As she spoke, Drew’s eyebrows knitted together; he leaned forward and placed his wine on the coffee table, and he slid his newly-free hand between the fidgeting of both of hers, interrupting the anxious movements. He took her hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly.
“You don’t need to worry about it this much. I promise.”
“But I want to,” she murmured. “Just one year, I want to know with total certainty that I did perfectly before you’ve even opened it. Especially this year.”
Off in the kitchen, May heard the quiet scrape and clicks of Absol’s horn and claws against the tile as the creature stretched.
Drew was quiet as he thought for a moment. His hand played with hers— tangling and untangling fingers, skimming the ridges and grooves of her knuckles, tracing her palm like he was reading their future, written in branching leylines that May hoped would always lead back to each other.
“What makes this year so different?” he murmured.
“I don’t know. It’s just, we’re engaged—” Despite herself, a smile broke across her face at the word, and it only half-fell afterwards, “And I feel like if I can commit the rest of my life to you, then I should be better at smaller, simple things like gift-giving by now. But nothing ever feels good enough.”
“I promise it always is, and you know that things like that don’t actually matter to me.”
“It matters to me, though,” she said softly. “If I can’t even do this—”
Drew shifted on the cushions slightly to look at her face and catch her eye contact. “I see where you’re going with that, and I’m stopping you right there. I’ve known you for longer than I haven’t, and I’ve loved you for…” His eyes unfocused for a moment as he counted— “Pretty much about the same amount of time as I’ve known you, actually, whether I knew to call it that or not. My point is, you have nothing to prove. Rings and legal documents are great and all, but you don’t need to add any extra pressure to yourself because of that. We’re still us, and you’re more than ‘good enough’. Being engaged is amazing, but it shouldn’t change anything or add any more stress. Other than wedding planning stress, but that’s usually good stress. So, let’s save our energy for that, and just have a nice evening tonight. Okay?”
May closed her eyes as he spoke, taking in the words and the gentle vibrations of his voice in his chest and throat. The sensation was almost as instantly soothing as his words.
“You say all the right things.”
He let out a soft laugh. “Years of practice and getting it wrong.”
May smiled, letting old memories of old arguments play through her mind— called names, call-outs, called bluffs. Some from before they were even friends, some after several years of dating; all things they’d been able to work through, though.
Sometimes, May wondered what her younger self would think if she were to know that her irritating, arrogant, perfectionist rival, the one that she used to swear was the bane of her very existence, would one day be cooking one of her favorite dinners in their shared kitchen, and that his body next to hers was a comfort that he desired just as much as she did.
With a glow of warmth, she knew that her younger self would have been a lot happier about that than she’d have let on. Even back then.
When May turned her face towards his, Drew’s gaze was distant; he blinked, coming back to the moment as their eyes locked, and silent understanding passed between them.
We’ve come a long way.
In accidental sync, they both reached for their wine glasses. May, sideways towards the end table, Drew, forward to the coffee table; the split second of separation ended, and their forms sidled together again instantaneously.
After a generous sip that rendered her glass about half-empty, similar to his, May placed it down again and leaned her head against Drew’s shoulder; she felt his cheek rest on her head.
“I still need to get a gift for you,” she pointed out after a moment. “You’re impossible to shop for. You’re extremely picky, you know.”
He kissed the top of her head again. “I am extremely picky, and I chose you. I have great taste.”
“Very sweet sentiment. Not particularly helpful.”
Drew stretched his legs out across the couch, repositioning himself to lay with his head in her lap. “Okay, so talk this out with me. I know you well enough to know that you’ve probably considered several things and shot them all down. What have you been thinking about, and why weren’t they good enough?”
She frowned down at him. “Drew, come on. I’m not going to let you help me shop for your own present—”
“Please?”
His face was just barely wine-flushed as he looked up at her, with dilated pupils and a feather-soft gaze; he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his hand trail down her jaw on the downstroke.
“This is psychological warfare,” May muttered.
Drew smirked up at her. “You love it.”
“I do. That’s half of the problem.”
“And the other half?”
“The other half of the problem,” May started, running her hand through his hair in return and smiling as his eyes fluttered to a relaxed close, “Is that you know that I love it. And there’s a secret other third half of the problem—”
“I don’t think that’s how halves work, babe.”
“—And it’s that we should both drink the rest of our wine a little bit slower than we drank the first part of it, because you’re really cute when your cheeks get red like this, and I’m having a hard time standing my ground right now. I like this one, by the way.”
“I thought you would,” he murmured. “It’s not too dry, but not too sweet, either. Tastes light, but hits strong. It’s a good one to keep on hand for cooking and drinking; it’s versatile. It’s also not too expensive to keep on hand.”
“See? That, right there. That’s the thing. I was thinking about getting you a bottle of wine for Christmas, but you know so much more about it than I do, and I don’t know how to choose one for you.”
“You know more than you think you do,” he insisted.
“Yeah, but not enough to choose one that I know you’d love. So that’s off the table. And then, I considered getting you a really nice sweater, one that you could wear when you start your internship with Mr. Contesta in January. But it’d have to be warm, because you’ll be spending a lot of time in Sinnoh, but if the fabric is too thick or itchy, it’ll really bother you.” As she kept going, Drew ran his fingers through her hair in an almost hypnotic, devoted rhythm. “And the neckline needs to be low enough that you can get your shirt collar folded neatly out from it, but high enough that it looks put-together and well-fitted, and I couldn’t find one that was right. And all the trendy colors that they’re making stuff in this season are too washed-out; you look good in jewel tones and dark neutrals. And I want it to be really nice quality, but not ostentatious. No visible branding. And that’s not even considering the washing instructions. Nothing checked off every box.”
“It’s hot when you talk like this,” Drew murmured from where he lay, still gazing up at her; soft and steady, but unmistakably a few degrees warmer than before. “I love watching and listening to you think. Especially when you get detail-oriented. Next time you need help planning out your contest appeals…”
She gently flicked his nose, failing to fight back a smile. “Pay attention.”
Drew gave an acquiescing but non-committal hum. “I’ll try.”
In the kitchen, May heard a pot of water starting to boil, and the aromatics in the old saucepan smelled like they were nearly done simmering.
It reminded her of one of the earlier options she’d considered months ago.
“One other thing I thought about was getting you a new set of really nice cookware—”
To her surprise, at that, Drew’s eyes lit up; an unguarded look of excitement that was as rare as it was endearing.
“Wait, really?” He pushed himself up from where his head laid in her lap, now face-to-face with her.
May affectionately brushed a piece of hair away from his face. “Yeah, but—”
Suddenly, the timer that he’d set beeped, interrupting both of them with a startled jump and a subsequent hiss from Delcatty.
“Sorry. Let me deal with that before it burns,” Drew murmured, getting up and taking his wine glass with him.
May kicked the cashmere blanket off of herself and into a bundle, and on the far end of the couch, Delcatty stretched towards it and kneaded her claws into the fabric before settling down again. Better the blanket than the couch, May reasoned, letting it slide.
She brought her own glass as well, setting it down next to his on the polished granite countertop next to the stovetop. She topped both of them off before handing the wine bottle to Drew, who poured an unmeasured yet precise amount into the saucepan. It balanced out the aromas perfectly; light and almost citrusy, but with the heady intensity of the aromatics and a sprig of rosemary.
Drew expertly moved the contents at the bottom of the pan around, thoroughly incorporating the veggies, oil, wine, and aromatics; using the spoon, he scraped the crisp, flavorful bits off the bottom of the pan and into the mix.
“Thanks again for making this tonight,” she said.
“Of course. Do you want to hand me the flour? I’m going to start on the sauce, I’ve got everything pre-measured off to the side. If you want to pour the dry pasta in the boiling water, now’s a good time for that, too.”
She handed him the flour, and then the milk, watching contentedly for a moment as he continued cooking.
May then picked up the pasta and listened to the dry rattle as she poured it from the box and into the water, closing the lid over the pot; with a couple taps of her finger, she set her phone timer for it. She returned to her spot next to Drew, nestling her chin on his shoulder as he gradually stirred the milk and flour in to form the cream sauce.
He tilted his head towards hers for a moment, pressing his cheek to hers, before returning to cooking.
“I thought about getting you new cookware,” May continued, picking back up where they’d left off, “But now it wouldn’t be a surprise, and… I don’t know, isn’t that kind of selfish of me? You make dinner most nights, which I benefit from. If I got you cookware, then isn’t that like giving you something to do a chore with?”
Drew stopped stirring the contents of the saucepan together for long enough to give her a fondly exasperated look. “May?”
“Hm?”
“I’m going to be honest with you: I’m not sure that you’ve ever overthought anything more than you’re overthinking this right now. I cook most nights because I love cooking, not because it’s a chore. I enjoy this. Also, if you benefit from a gift, then isn’t that just an added bonus?”
“I guess so, but I still want it to be for you,” she insisted, stepping back to give him more room to work. She leaned back against the counter. “The gifts you give me are always so personalized and thought-out, and I don’t want to get you something that’s, like, self-serving for me. There would be ulterior motive for me to give you cooking supplies.”
“Ulterior motive? All I’ve seen is an incredible amount of thought and consideration, and a refusal to settle for anything but the best. Have you considered that maybe the problem is that you’re too good at gift-giving? You know me well enough to shoot everything down for ten reasons. Also, I’ve totally given you self-serving gifts with ulterior motive before, so you shouldn’t worry about that,” Drew pointed out, reaching for the utensil drawer and pulling out two small spoons.
“When have you ever gotten me a gift that was partly for you? I do not believe you.”
He dipped both spoons in the cream sauce and handed one to her to taste.
“You know that sundress I gave you a few years ago? Halter top, v-neck, fitted at the waist?”
May took the spoon from him and tasted it with a satisfied nod. “Okay, but how is that self-serving? That’s one of my favorite dresses, I wear it all the time.”
“And I get to see you in it all the time,” he replied smoothly, and a subtle heatwave eased across May’s skin. “So. How’s the sauce?”
“It’ll be absolutely perfect once you add the parmesan and a bit more thyme. And just because you find me attractive in a dress doesn’t make it a self-serving gift, by the way.”
“I think that it was a very selfish gift for me to give you, actually,” he argued, a certain playful edge taking hold of his tone. He placed both spoons in the sink, glancing over his shoulder to add, “I should make it up to you next time you wear it.”
She gave Drew a look— a practiced show of exasperation, affection, and this time, something sultrily accusatory— and Drew simply straightened up and blinked back at her with a comically transparent veil of wide-eyed innocence that was entirely betrayed by his smirk.
“What was that look for?”
“You know the answer to that, and you know that I know that you know.”
Still, May smiled as he shortened the space between them; his fuzzy socks moved across the tile, his hands melted to the form of her waist, her hands laced together at the nape of his neck to pull him closer.
“Indulge me. Tell me anyways,” Drew breathed, pressing his forehead to hers.
“I’m still trying to figure out what to get you,” she said, voice low and steady, “And you’re somehow managing to spin it back on me. Let me focus on you for once.”
“But I like giving,” he murmured, and the falsely-innocent lilt to his tone lifted to reveal something more amorous underneath. He deftly twirled a lock of May’s hair between his fingers before adding, “Giving gifts and presents and such, of course.”
“And such?”
“And such.”
A familiar feeling flowed through May, encouraged by the alcohol and the way he looked at her.
She unlaced her fingers from where they’d clasped behind his head and she slowly dragged one hand down the side of his neck; he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers again with a deep, slightly uneven breath. It was wordless, but it said enough. May’s fingers traced down the quickening thrum of his carotid artery; a lifeline that pulsed at its most alive around her.
Drew took her hand in his and kissed the inside of her wrist, her own synced pulse point, before placing it on his heart as it beat heavy through his sweater.
His voice was as laced with honeyed oxytocin as his veins were when he spoke again, and his grip on her waist tightened slightly.
“Is it really such a bad thing,” he lulled in a silky whisper, “If giving benefits you, too? Is it self-serving, or just mutually beneficial?”
“Are we still talking about Christmas presents?”
“We’re talking about whatever you want right now.” His breath fanned hot across her neck, and a delighted shiver danced up her spine. “I get pleasure from the gift of giving, so why shouldn’t you get joy from whatever gift you give me? Let it be self-serving. Be selfish. I want you to. It’s a win-win for me.”
Drew’s hands moved; formerly touching her waist, he now pulled her into a full embrace in the cozy winter glow. His palms slid across her back, his chest warmly pressed hers until their hearts were as close as possible; with a blissful slip of voice in her sighed exhale, May cupped his face in her hands and kissed him.
His lips, wine-sweet and soft to the touch, met hers in a seamless closure, as if they were two interlocking parts of a whole. As if they’d been made with the other in mind, a unique matching pair.
May took a moment to wonder just how many lifetimes of lovers had kissed in the very position that they were in, just then. How many ancient kitchens had been home to the very same softness, how many moments every human had ever spent overtaken by that very same feeling. How many historical statues and paintings had tried to capture that exact feeling, as ephemeral as sunlight shimmering through flowing water. She wondered how much happiness had ever been felt across time, and how anyone could ever hope to quantify that when May couldn’t even fathom an adequate measure for the contentment between her and Drew alone.
His lips smiled against hers, and she knew— there was no measure that would ever be enough, and no gift would ever feel like enough.
It was wonderful, she decided, to have something so impossible to capture in its entirety.
When the kiss separated, May fell back into reality without having noticed her momentary departure; life resumed outside of the tunnel-vision that each kiss granted her. The electrical hum of appliances, the sounds of the food cooking, the presence of Absol stretched out and napping across the floor, the glow of candles and dimmed overhead lights; the world rushed back, but some part of her lagged a second behind.
A comfortably heavy moment passed between them before Drew leaned in to kiss her again, more passionately this time—
And then, all at once, the timer on May’s phone beeped and a sudden harsh sizzle sounded from behind them.
“Damn it,” Drew cursed, breaking apart from her and swiftly reaching for a pot holder with which to lift the lid of the boiling pasta water, which had overboiled. May cut off her alarm and returned to his side with a worried frown.
“I’m so sorry, I should have remembered that we had stuff on the stove.”
“No, it’s my fault; I’m the one that got us going on that. Completely forgot about dinner,” he muttered, turning the stovetop’s dial all the way back down until it clicked off. “Careful, there’s hot water everywhere.”
Absol, grumpily startled out of his slumber, huffily slunk out of the kitchen to join Delcatty on the couch.
May hovered nearby, eyebrows knit together. “Is the pasta ruined?”
“No, it should still be fine, and the veggies and sauce are on low heat on the back burner,” he assured, moving the overboiled pot off the residual heat of the front burner. “Can you put the colander in the sink for me?”
“Already on it!”
As May shuffled through the lower cabinets for the colander and situated it in the sink for Drew, he let out a frustrated, sharp exhale.
“I really hate this pot sometimes,” he plainly stated, carefully hefting it upwards and moving it to the sink, where he poured its contents out into the colander.
“That’s like, what, the fourth time it’s gotten too hot and overboiled in the last six months alone?”
“Yes! It’s so frustrating. The temp isn’t set that high, but it conducts heat so unevenly. It’s always way too hot or not hot enough. If you look away for two damn seconds, there’s either boiling water everywhere, or it’s somehow back down to a simmer.”
May took the potholders from Drew and placed them back in their drawer, and she bit her lip thoughtfully as she watched her fiancé strain the noodles.
“The saucepan’s pretty old too, right?” she questioned.
“Yeah. It’s one of the ones you bought to cook for yourself when you were traveling around Johto, right?”
“Wait, is it? I thought we got it when we moved in together, in the old apartment.”
“I could have sworn it was your old one.” Drew shrugged, pouring the pasta into a serving bowl with the sauce and veggies, mixing it together. “I don’t know. Maybe not? It feels like stuff just shows up at this point.”
May hummed in quiet agreement.
“And how’s our frying pan holding up?”
At that, Drew paused. He shot her a questioning look as he finished putting dinner together, tracking her with his eyes as she got bowls and forks out for the two of them.
“Our frying pan is as good as it ever was, but it was never that good to begin with. Why?”
“I was just thinking,” she murmured, “That maybe if I got you that nice cookware set, it would be… mutually beneficial.”
May knew, watching the excited gleam return to his eyes, that it was the right choice.
He swiftly laid dinner down on the table, and May placed their wine glasses at their spots, but before she could take her seat, he reached towards her, pulling her close once more.
His hand cupped her cheek, and May knew that she’d never grow tired of feeling the metal of his ring against her skin.
“I’d love that,” Drew said softly, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. “And part of why I’d love it is because I’d get to cook for us more easily, and that it benefits both of us. It makes me happy when you’re happy.”
She leaned her cheek into his hand.
“Me, too.”
He pulled her in for one more kiss, light but dizzying in its devotion; lips met lips, skin touched skin, and the gentle movement of it was equal in give and take.
They eased apart.
“Love you, Maple.”
She felt her cheeks warm as she broke into a grin. “Love you, too. You won’t be able to call me that for much longer, you know.”
Drew took his seat across from her, but their legs comfortably brushed under the small table. His features were soft in the low light, with the candle-flicker and the amber lamp-glow casting ephemeral shadows.
His words were cast just as soft when they came out.
“You’re still positive that you want to take my last name?”
“You know my family better than anyone outside of it, you tell me. I’m not sure how much more Maple the world can handle,” May joked.
Drew gave a quiet huff of conceding amusement as he served food into both of their bowls.
The levity of the moment settled into something deeper, more intimate, as Drew took her hand from across the table, with his refilled wine glass in the other.
He tilted it towards her, careful not to spill any; May did the same with hers, listening as the glasses touched with a satisfying clink.
“To the soon-to-be Mrs. May Hayden, then,” Drew said softly, almost reverently.
May smiled. “To marrying the love of my life, who cooks me dinner and who’s about to have some much nicer pots and pans for it. And to enjoying the benefits of the gifts we give.”
They both drank from their glasses, holding eye contact with all the promise and devotion of a vow.
May looked forward to a lifetime of mutual benefit, shared happiness, and reciprocal joy. And she knew, with unshakeable certainty, that Drew did, too; they shared a love that turned give-and-take into one and the same, where one person’s happiness flowed into the other’s. That’s what it was all about to them: a shared life that was immeasurably better than two separate ones.
May was happy to share a life with Drew, even though she knew that in a year’s time she’d be struggling to find a gift for her picky, specific, hard-to-shop-for husband.
It was always worth it, though— for both of them.