“Chicken noodle soup,” he tells me, grabbing two of my bowls and placing them on the counter. When I reach for the bags to help him, he places gentle hands on my hips and steers me away. “Sit. I’ll do it.” I don’t tell him that I don’t need him to take care of me because, frankly, it feels nice. It feels like something a boyfriend might do for you, an inner voice whispers. I ignore it, and sit down. Closing my eyes, I listen to the soft sounds of Anthony serving up the soup and preparing tea. It’s not lost on me that I didn’t even have to ask him to do that—he just knew that’s what I would
...more
