[Kendall]
I sit at the table, absently watching Camden as he moves around the kitchen. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the sizzle of onions in the pan, is oddly calming.
“I never learned to cook,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “My father did all the cooking.”
Camden glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Can’t boil water?” he asks, teasing.
I huff, half-laughing, half-defensive. “I can make boxed stuff,” I argue.
He groans dramatically. “Your Italian ancestors must be rolling around in their graves when you say that.”
I laugh lightly, but it’s tinged with something sad, something nostalgic. “Maybe.”
Camden’s gaze drifts over the living room, where my clothes are scattered across the floor. His mouth quirks into a half-smile as he eyes the mess
