Three days later, I'm standing in our kitchen trying to figure out how to make the chicken parmesan recipe Zeke's mom sent me. The recipe card is splattered with what I hope is tomato sauce and not blood from where I nearly cut my finger off chopping garlic.
"Need help?" Zeke appears behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and peering over my shoulder.
"I'm fine," I lie, staring at the instructions that might as well be in another language.
"Uh-huh." He reaches around me and turns down the heat on the stove where something is definitely starting to burn. "That's why the kitchen smells like a forest fire?"
"I'm trying something new."
"I can see that." He kisses my neck. "How about we try it together?"
Since that intense afternoon, we've been careful with each other. Not distant,
