Love Spaces

A micro-fiction collection that explores the gentle spaces where connection grows.

Love is an action, never simply a feeling.—bell hooks

Claire and Tom

“Hot chocolate from scratch again?”

Claire’s voice held laughter as she pulled out a chair at the kitchen island.

Tom balanced two mugs, steam swirling upward like tiny clouds. The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon and pine from the wreath she’d hung.

“Hey, you know I don’t do instant,” he said with a lopsided smile, setting the mugs down.

She took hers, warming her hands on the chipped ceramic. Outside, snow muffled the garden, and birds flitted from bush to bush, searching for dried berries.

“Why the fuss every Valentine’s?” Claire asked as she hovered over her mug, allowing the steam from it to warm her face.

Tom shrugged, raising his mug in a small salute.

“Because it’s worth it.”

They shared the silence, the rich scent of chocolate filling the room, as they gazed at the wintry scene outside their window.

Harold and Jaime

“Okay, my boy. Ready for the next chapter?”

Harold’s voice was low and tender as he pulled the chair close to Jamie’s bed, avoiding the thin lines tethering his grandson to the machines.

The sharp scent of antiseptic lingered faintly. Cool air brushed lightly against Jamie’s skin, a sharp contrast to the heavy blanket tucked securely around him.

Jamie’s puffy eyes fixed on the worn copy of The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring in Harold’s hands. Its pages, worn and softened by time, carried the faint hint of dust and quiet adventures.

Jamie nodded, pulling the blanket up under his chin. Harold’s fingers lingered on the book’s cover before he began reading.

His voice softened, and he cleared his throat more than once as he read the part where Frodo offers to carry the ring alone. One of Jamie’s small hands gripped the blanket tighter, as if holding onto the quiet bravery that filled the story.

Outside, the steady sounds of the hospital continued—the distant footsteps, the muffled voices—but soon faded as the rhythm and timber of Harold’s voice harmonized with the humming of the machines.

Jamie’s other hand found Harold’s, squeezing once, twice.

Jack and Mary

The familiar tin of tea tucked behind the cereal boxes made Jack laugh.

“Hmmm. Still hiding your favorite blend.”

Mary smirked, lifting the kettle as she filled two delicate teacups.

“Well…you always borrow it without asking.”

With the warm cups in hand, they stepped onto the porch where autumn leaves twirled in a soft breeze; the afternoon light wove through the trees, casting the porch in shadow.

Mary’s attention shifted as a cool breeze brushed past, and she set her cup on the porch railing.

Her fingers found Jack’s scarf, tugging it a little tighter around his neck, the wool soft beneath her touch.

Jack caught her hand, his grip steady and warm.

Ellen and Grace

“Hey, remember the first time I made your toast like this?” Grace asked without looking up.

She spread butter in circles over one side of the toast, transforming it into a gleaming golden color.

A rich aroma rose between them, filling the kitchen as Grace handed Ellen a cup of coffee.

Ellen lifted the cup slowly, cradling the warmth, before taking a small sip. Then, with a smile, she reached for the toast.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you fixing my mornings, luv.”

Margaret and Richard

“Look at us,” Margaret said, holding up an old photo with curled edges and faded colors.

In the image, they stood side by side, flushed and sweating under the afternoon sun, their hair tousled by the wind.

Richard leaned in, tracing the curve of her smile with his finger. His eyes lingered on the smudge of dirt on her cheek—a mark she hadn’t bothered to wash off that day.

“Girl, you still have that streak,” he said.

Margaret glanced at him.

“Yep, that’s my motto. Never give up.”

He chuckled, voice warm but low.

“Yeah, climbing that last ridge was tough, but you kept going, even when your legs begged for a rest.”

She let the photo settle on her lap, fingers tracing a jagged edge.

George and Sam

The sun dipped below the trees, shadows stretching long across the porch.

George’s weathered thermos, in his hand, showed scratches from years of use.

“I can’t believe you still laugh at my tent poles story,” he said.

Sam’s grin was wide, eyes bright.

“Hmm, you bet I do. I still laugh ‘cause you were more focused on chopping wood than getting that tent set right. Reckon those stakes would've come in handy.”

George’s chuckle was husky and vibrant as Sam’s hand settled on his wrist, fingers firm and calloused from years of hard work, the familiar texture causing George to drop his shoulders, relax.

“Uh-huh, that’s the time that tent blew right over before we even got our stuff inside. I swear, I was ready to chase it all the way to the lake,” Sam said, shaking his head with a big grin.

Author’s Note

This collection is a quiet invitation to notice the subtle ways love shows up in our lives. It’s in the soft rhythms we build with another person, the shared routines that become anchors, and the comfortable silences that feel like home.

The quote by bell hooks, the Black American feminist, cultural critic, teacher, and writer, was my inspiration. I wanted these stories to remind us that love lives in those actions—in the unspoken care, the gentle touch, and the everyday moments where two lives meet and hold steady.

Thank you for stepping into these spaces with me.

Upcoming…

• A poem of love and loss:

  A Haunting, 14 February 2026

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