Chapter 9 Evening That Almost Stayed

Clara went to Peter’s house that evening with no absolute plan, just the need for company, comfort and the quiet ache that had followed her since the conversation about Amsterdam ended unfinished. She has been sulking.

The sky was already bruising into dusk when she arrived. Peter opened the door before she could knock properly, as if he’d been waiting just behind it, listening for her footsteps. The sight of him loosened something that had been tight inside her chest.

“You came,” he said.

“I said I would, and I need to” she replied, though it felt like more than a promise kept. It felt like a choice.

Inside, the house carried a familiar warmth, one of soft lighting, the faint scent of something baking somewhere deeper in the home. Clara shrugged off her jacket and followed Peter downstairs to his room, her lungs adjusting slowly, carefully, like they always did.

He noticed. He always did.

“Take your time,” he said gently.

She smiled at that. “I’m okay.”

They sat on the floor at first, backs against the bed. Clara’s eyes drifted to the console near his desk, the controllers neatly aligned like they mattered. Peter loves video games.

“You play a lot?” she asked.

Peter’s mouth curved into something playful. “Enough to embarrass myself when challenged.” They both laughed.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”

His grin widened. “You sure you’re ready?”

Minutes later, Clara was gripping the controller with surprising determination, her tongue caught lightly between her teeth as she tried to memorize button combinations Peter explained far too quickly.

“Okay, okay,” she laughed. “Why is everyone punching so aggressively?”

“That’s Mortal Combat,” he said, amused. “Violence with commitment.”

She lost the first round badly. The second one too. But by the third, something clicked.

Peter blinked when she landed a clean hit. Then another.

“Wait! What? How did you..?”

“Don’t distract me,” she said, focused now, fingers moving faster, instinctively.

She won.

Peter stared at the screen, then at her. “You learn scary fast.”

Clara laughed, breathless. “I don’t like losing.”

They played until her hands ached and her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. When she finally leaned back against him, head tipping lightly against his arm, Peter paused the game without comment.

“Movie?” he suggested.

“Yes. Please.”

Halfway through the movie, Peter slipped away quietly.

He stepped into the kitchen, a small smirk playing on his lips as he gestured for Clara to follow. “You’re coming to supervise,” he said, holding up a cutting board with a piece of chicken. Clara laughed softly, shaking her head. “Supervise? Don’t tempt me to take over,” she teased.

He chuckled and began rinsing the chicken under cold water, his movements precise and careful. Clara leaned against the counter, watching him with interest. “You take this seriously, huh?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Every dish deserves respect,” Peter replied, his tone half-joking, half-serious. “Even a simple pasta.”

Clara giggled as she watched him slice the chicken into thin strips, his knife moving swiftly. She reached out, pointing at one piece. “Don’t cut it too thin, you’ll lose all the flavor.”

He paused, looking at her, and their eyes met for a heartbeat longer than usual. A warm flush crept up her cheeks. “Fine,” he said with a grin, “I’ll trust the master chef’s advice.”

When he moved to chop the vegetables, Clara stepped closer to hand him the bell pepper. Their fingers brushed, just barely, but enough to send an unexpected spark through both of them. Peter smirked, pretending not to notice. “Careful, we don’t want any casualties before dinner,” he teased.

They laughed together as he heated the pan, the sizzle of oil greeting them. The aroma of garlic and onions filled the air, and Clara’s stomach growled softly. “It smells amazing,” she admitted, inhaling deeply.

Peter winked. “That’s just the beginning. Wait until the pasta joins the party.” He tossed the chicken into the pan, the strips hissing as they touched the hot surface. Clara leaned in closer to get a better look, and the warmth from the pan brushed against her hands as she offered to stir.

Their hands met on the wooden spoon, and for a brief moment, neither moved. Peter’s eyes softened as he looked at her, and Clara felt her heart flutter uncontrollably. “I think we make a good team,” he said, his voice low and warm.

Clara laughed softly, hiding her face in her hands for a moment before saying, “Just don’t let it burn while you’re getting sentimental.”

As he added the sauce, Peter stole little glances at her, smiling at her excitement and the way her eyes sparkled in the kitchen light. Clara couldn’t help but notice how gentle he was, even with the pan still sizzling. It was in these small moments, the closeness, the shared laughter, and the touches that made her feel a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Finally, Peter handed her a small taste of the chicken pasta, and she savored it slowly, pretending to critique. “Perfectly cooked,” she said, exaggerating a nod. He grinned triumphantly, and they stood there for a moment, sharing a quiet, contented smile, the kitchen alive with the scent of garlic, simmering sauce, and a subtle, unspoken affection.

Footsteps approached, it was Peter's mom. She had just walked in.

“Well,” she said lightly, taking in the scene, “this looks domestic.”

Clara flushed instantly.

Peter groaned. “Mom.”

“I’m just saying,” she continued, smiling knowingly. “You two look very… comfortable.”

Clara laughed nervously. “We’re just…”

“Watching a movie,” Peter finished.

His mother winked. “Of course you are.”

Peter had just finished making some stir fry chicken pasta, Clara had stayed with him and it was all fun and chill eating together.

Later, they curled up on the couch, a careful closeness between them. Peter’s arm rested around her shoulders, tentative at first, then certain. Clara fit there easily, like her body already knew the shape of him.

At one point, she tilted her head back, and their faces hovered dangerously close.

Neither moved.

Neither pulled away.

The moment had just stretched fragile and trembling, Clara exhaled softly and rested her head against his chest again avoiding further temptation.

It was finally time for Clara to leave, Peter drove her home, the night quiet around them.

Before she stepped out, he said, “You know… some wishes do come true.”

Clara looked at him, heart unsteady.

“Do they?” she asked.

Peter didn’t answer. He just smiled.

And she

went inside wondering which wishes were safe to believe in.