Dominic
Same evening, after our little kitchen disaster, I told her to get dressed. “We’re going out,” I said, standing by the counter, watching her confusion spread across her face.
“Out? Now?” she asked, wiping her hands on a towel, still smelling faintly like burnt sauce.
“Yes, right now. Come on.”
She blinked at me, like she was trying to figure out if I was serious. “You’re kidding, right? We just—”
“No,” I cut in, “you tried to kill me with pasta. You owe me an actual dinner.”
Her mouth fell open for a second, then she laughed, shaking her head. “God, I can't get used to this.”
“Ten minutes,” I said, ignoring her protest and heading upstairs. I didn’t know why I suddenly wanted to take her out. Maybe it was guilt for teasing her too much. Maybe I just didn’t want the night to
