It happened in her kitchen, which was where most of the real things happened between them.
She had been teaching him to make pastry dough -- not because he'd asked to learn, but because he'd watched her work for three Tuesday mornings and she'd finally handed him the rolling pin and told him to try. He was better at it than she expected. His hands were careful and he took instruction without ego, which she was beginning to understand was characteristic of him: he was not precious about not knowing things, only about being lied to.
They were working side by side at the prep table, flour on both of them, music on the speaker, the kind of quiet that had long since stopped needing to be filled. She reached across him for the butter and he didn't move back the way he usually did when she got
