Lynn's POV
The evening smells like butter and garlic and something that's been simmering long enough to mean it.
Logan is at the stove. I'm on the counter — my usual spot when he cooks, legs dangling, close enough to steal things off the cutting board, which I do regularly and without shame. There's a steak in the pan, prawns on the side burner, and a chocolate thing in the oven that he won't tell me the details of because he says it's better as a surprise, which is the most aggravating thing a person can do when someone is hungry.
It's been days since we've done this.
I realize that sitting here. Weeks, maybe — the kind of slow accumulation where you stop noticing how long it's been until suddenly you're here again and the absence lands retroactively. We've been having dinner but not
