You like her when she’s like this.

She stands at the kitchen sink, her sleeves rolled up and her forearms covered in soap suds. The dishwasher door stands open beside her, the bottom rack pulled out, and the water runs as she puts breakfast dishes in. She sings, not at the top of her lungs, but loudly enough so that you can hear her clearly over the running water and the clink of ceramics, glass, and metal.

You sit with your tall, lanky, geeky body at her kitchen table in her tiny apartment. Most people would call it shabby or cheap. You think it’s wonderful. You think she’s wonderful, too. She’s short and soft and small, and you like it.

You happen to know this particular song that she’s singing as she puts the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Your favorite line comes up. You don’t like to sing when other people are around, so you just mouth the words to this line as you watch her sing.

I used to live alone before I knew you.

It’s true. You had been the typical single white male, shy and quiet. Nobody really noticed you, except for her. She would see you every day in the quad on campus, alone with your laptop, and come over and sit and talk to you, something you weren’t accustomed to. You found that your personalities fit well together, the introvert and the extrovert. You smile to yourself as you realize your situation is rather cliché. You don’t mind. On the second day she talked to you, she gave you directions to her place. She wanted you to come over and eat your meals with her because you had told her that, being a male college student, what you ate mainly consisted of Spaghetti-Os and pizza.

“Well, that won’t work,” she stated flatly. Now you eat what she cooks, and that’s that. You like eating with her. You’re not lonely anymore, and her cooking is like nothing you’ve ever tasted.

And so you watch her put up breakfast dishes for the umpteenth morning in a row. You always offer to help, but she always says, quite simply, “Sit,” and points at the table. You comply. You don’t mind. You like watching her when she sings anyway. Today is cloudy, and the gray light from the tiny window above her sink casts an eerie glow over the kitchen.

Before you know it, you have risen from the table, crossed the room, and are standing beside her at the counter. Your hand moves to the small of her back, and she turns to face you slowly, her eyes meeting yours. You kiss her.

Time stops, plain and simple.

Her sudsy arms wind their way around your neck, and hot water trickling down your skin makes you shiver. You hold her around the middle, and her soft body curving into yours, the rightness of it, makes you say it.

“I love you,” you whisper, pulling away from her a fraction to say the words that you knew would inevitably spill from your lips.

“And I, you,” she says breathlessly, pulling your head down to kiss you again.

You like her when she’s like this.

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a/n: inspired by the jeff buckley cover version of “hallelujah.” i know, not a particularly happy-making song, but it’s how my brain works. the protagonist’s favorite line comes from there. thanks, kalena-lena.