We napped like cats. We woke to the swan lamp judging us. We made tea and pretended I hadn’t tried to eat a chili pepper whole. The basil plant looked hopeful. The mint looked like it had secrets.
“Dinner?” he asked.
“Let’s cook,” I said, catching myself and laughing. “Listen to me, like I know how to do that.”
“We can read,” he said. “We’ll bully a recipe into submission.”
We bought a recipe. We burned nothing. We high-fived over garlic like we’d summited something. I wore his shirt, which is a gendered crime of joy. He cooked in my kitchen like he could do it with his eyes closed and still look annoyingly competent.
Mid-stir, I reached for my phone on instinct. A reflex. A habit. He clocked it, gently.
“Hey,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Hand me that instead,” he said, nodding at the spoon,
