"You don't have an oven?"
Kiko looked adorably bewildered, clutching a white ceramic baking dish wrapped in foil as he surveyed my kitchenette. Unlike his fully equipped, magazine-worthy space, mine was more...shall we say, utilitarian?
"I texted you on Wednesday, remember? I said all I have is a single-burner induction stove, a frying pan, a saucepan, and a rice cooker. What more does a girl need?"
"I remember now. That was the same day you sent me that thread of people trying to sell mirrors."
"In response to your thread of misheard lyrics." I chuckled. "Anyway, who bakes adobo?"
"It's not baked per se; it's just that slowly roasting it in the oven is the best way to get the meat to denature––" He stopped at the blank look on my face. "Get it all soft and juicy."
I took the dish from him and set it on the foldable table against the wall, where I'd set placemats, two plates and two sets of utensils. He followed his nose to the simmering pot on my single burner and lifted the lid to take an appreciative sniff.
"Ready to concede?" I asked.
"Not till I have a taste," he chuckled.
I switched off the stove and gestured to the rice cooker. "Help yourself." He piled his plate with a mountain of brown rice and ladled a generous portion of my chicken adobo on it. I lifted the foil off his dish to reveal perfectly round discs of pork in a thick sauce, a touch lighter in color than my own. I placed a couple of slices on my plate of rice. Kiko took the seat across me.
"Ready?" he asked.
I nodded. Together we attacked our plates.
Silence for several minutes as we ate––or tried to process the alchemy happening in my mouth, in my case. The meat from Kiko's dish was fork-tender, almost dissolving on my tongue. The garlic had been slow roasted with the meat until it was no longer solid and became more like a spreadable jelly. The sauce...I could taste a hint of the coconut milk he used, not so much that it turned the dish into a non-spicy Bicol Express, but just enough to take the sharp flavors of garlic, vinegar and salt somewhere velvety and soft.
He moaned, breaking my own reverie. His plate was clean, and he stood to get seconds.
"I have to say it: Jane, this is fucking delicious."
"I told you so."
He poured sauce on his rice and returned to his seat, taking a huge spoonful and shutting his eyes tight in ecstasy. "What do I need to do for you to give me the recipe?"
"Say please." I took another bite of his adobo, savoring it. "So do I win?"
"I happily concede."
I sighed after another tender forkful. "I'd happily accept, except I can't. This," I pointed to the ceramic dish, "Is fucking divine."
"Noooo," he groaned. "Does this mean this is a tie?"
"You don't have to make it sound so terrible. There are as many ways to make adobo as there are islands in this archipelago; there are bound to be versions as good as the ones we make."
"I know. But...someone needs to win." He looked comically pained.
"In all fairness, I cannot designate a clear winner in this contest." I leaned closer to him to get the point across. "Face it, Kiko. We are both fucking adobo maestros."
He slowly nodded. "You know what this means?"
"No?"
"A taste test." His eyes gleamed with possibility. "We bring samples of our adobo, knock on our neighbors' doors––"
"No freaking way, Kiko," I giggled. "We aren't bothering our neighbors to judge a food fight."
"You're right." He sighed. "We're both kickass cooks."
He watched as I cleared our plates, microwaved water for our tea (I pretended not to notice his wince) and brought out the low-sugar fridge cake I'd whipped up for dessert. He sliced a piece and contemplated it.
"You still feel like there should be a winner, no?" I asked.
"Yes!" He clapped a hand on his cheek. "What's wrong with me?"
"No, no; I get it," I told him. "It feels anticlimactic, right, not having a definitive ranking?"
"How did we get this way, Miss Jane?"
I thought about it while I ate the cake and sipped the jasmine tea. "For me? I guess the more my family told me I couldn't or shouldn't do something, the more I wanted to do it. And not only do it, but dominate it. Absolutely crush it. To leave no doubt in anyone's mind––most especially my own––that I had every right to do the thing."
He looked intently at me as I spoke, and the expression in his face changed from curiosity to recognition.
"I think I can relate. But maybe, in my case, it's as simple as, if I can be the best at many things, I can tell that voice in my head to pipe down. The one that's convinced every win, every bit of praise, is a mistake, and soon people will find out it's a fluke."
"Impostor syndrome is a hell of a drug."
He was toying with the fork. I reached out and covered his hand with mine. He looked up at me with eyes that were soft and misty.
"Look at us." I spoke into the moment, before it overwhelmed me and I did something I would regret. "Two competitive misfits."
"Two competitive misfits who feel incredibly comfortable together." He blushed, the pink tinge spreading from neck to chest. "At least, I am."
"Me too. It's strange." I braced myself before unleashing the truth on him. "It's funny. I've made peace with the fact that no one has ever truly got me. Even the course I took in college–– 'Library science? Why? You get into one of the top universities in the country and you pick that?' But I know you for what, two and a half weeks? And I feel..."
"Seen."
"Listened to."
"Understood."
There it was again, that dangerous moment of understanding. His eyes were doing that misty, deep thing, and time seemed to be playing a trick on us, the trickling of sand slowing down to the pace of thick fudge.
This was dangerous. I cleared my throat. "I guess I need to start the dishes."
"Let me help."
"No, please, you're my guest."
"Can I at least dry while you wash?"
"Fine."
We stood shoulder to shoulder (or, more accurately, my shoulder to his chest) against the sink, working quietly, humming and stopping, trying to ignore the electric charge growing between us. I knew I wasn't the only one feeling it because I could hear him consciously changing his breath, trying to take longer ones, his exhales sounding a little shaky. I was so distracted by it that when I passed a mug for him to dry, I let it go without making sure he had it, and it slipped. He saved it from shattering with a quick reflex that had his hand clutching mine, the mug between us. His grip was tight, and he wasn't letting go. I looked up at him and swallowed a rush of breath. His expression was intent, 100% focused on me. Gently, he used his other hand to place the mug on the towel on the counter, his other hand still gripping mine.
"Jane," he breathed, almost a question.
I nodded anyway.
He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to mine.
They were soft. So soft and gentle and warm as they passed over my lips. I could hear his trembly breath. He took our entwined hands and placed it over his heart, where I felt it beat, firm and strong in his chest. I opened my mouth under his, meeting his tongue.
The kiss was soft, slow, luxurious; the fudge-trickle pace of time seemed to have stopped all together. My eyes shut tight against the sensation, my hands drifted to his broad shoulders as his right hand cupped the back of my head to deepen the kiss. His other hand embraced me, and in his arms I felt enveloped, warm and secure.
"This is nice," I murmured, surfacing for air.
"What is?"
"Being held by you."
His grin melted onto another kiss, as velvety and delicious as his cooking, as sinful as the chocolate spread he'd convinced me to try the first time we had breakfast together. This man...
This man was a treat.
Something wet trickled on my foot, breaking the moment. I leaned out of the kiss to discover that I'd left the faucet open and that water was now pouring over the stacked dishes onto the floor.
"Oh shit!" I turned the tap off.
"Where are your––"
"Under that cabinet."
Kiko pulled out a bunch of rags and pressed it on the wet floor. I crouched beside him and we mopped the mess.
"So." He laughed a little breathlessly.
"That was something."
"Something I'd like to do often."
"I meant the kiss."
"That's what I meant, too."
A rare heat took hold of my cheeks and a smile I couldn't control stretched on my face. "I think I like you, Kiko Trinidad."
"I think I like you too, Jane Adriano. A lot."
I bit my lip. It had been a while since I'd heard those words. Sitting beside a gorgeous guy whom you just confessed you liked and learned he liked you back? That shit was potent. It was a feeling I hadn't outgrown.
Too bad the water was escaping the rags. I wriggled away from the spreading puddle.
"I bet I can clean this up in five minutes," said Kiko. "If I do it in two, may I kiss you again?"
I put my face close to his. "You don't have to win a bet to kiss me."
Our lips came together again, giddily at first, giggling as we tasted each other. Then the laughter subsided and the kiss deepened into a kind of ancient language we both seemed to have forgotten but were slowly rediscovering.
There clearly wasn't goingto be cleaning done anytime soon.