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you’ve never seen caleb quite this confused.
“so you go to the grocery store.”
you nod. “yeah.”
“and you pick out the stuff you want.”
“uh-huh.”
“and then you come home and put it away, but…you never use it before it goes bad?” he stares at your refrigerator stocked full of produce that's seen better days.
“that is the problem i’m currently facing, yes.”
“well, that's good at least,” he says slyly. “acknowledgment is the first step. so, where’s the disconnect between food and stove?” he taps the side of your skull two times. “you’re takin’ advantage of our weird schedules to hide stuff from me. have you not been feeling well?”
“i’m fine physically. mentally…” you press your lips together and shrug your shoulders. “i’m still here, aren’t i? that’s gotta count for something.”
“i’m very glad you are. buuuut, that’s not very encouraging.” frowning, he scoops you up and sets you on the kitchen counter, dipping his head in his don’t-run-from-me-i’ll-catch-you way. “care to elaborate?”
“life is hard. food is hard. i know i should cook and i want to cook and i have all the ingredients, but i can't put them together. literally.”
with every word, his gaze grows more concerned. this is why you didn’t tell him in the first place. but unfortunately, for today’s visit, you got health inspector caleb instead of fun caleb.
“if eating requires me to cook, then i just won’t eat. it makes me feel bad and really, really lazy, but it feels like even if i just take the first step, my brain’s gonna explode. i gotta hold on to what i have left up there.” you point up top for emphasis.
he hums skeptically. “i don’t think you're lazy. i remember you used to cook a few times a week before they upped your hours at work. to me, it sounds like you're exhausted, and your stomach’s the one sufferin’ the most.” with eerie precision, he pokes your belly button through your shirt. you’re so used to it by now, you hardly flinch.
“maybe.” you smush your cheek into his chest, and he chuckles softly.
“how about this: whenever i get time off, i’ll come here and meal prep for you. that way, you’ll be taken care of at least most days of the week, and i won’t be stuck worryin' about you ‘til i lose my own appetite.”
“just a second ago, you were talking about working too much,” you mutter into his right pectoral. “now you want to waste your days off to cook for me?”
“ah-ah. the word ‘waste’ implies i wouldn’t enjoy it.” he pulls you closer and kisses your forehead. “which couldn’t be farther from the truth. taking care of you is no added pressure. it’s just…my default mode, you could say. feels like home.”
──────
later that week, a package comes in the mail. you didn’t order anything, and it’s light as air, so you have no clue what could be inside.
when you finally get around to opening it, you find a stack of gift cards to all your favorite restaurants, wrapped tight in a little orange bow.
on the days i can’t be there, use these, the accompanying note reads. let me know when you need a refill :)