The scent of garlic and butter filled Rory’s kitchen, mingling with the low hum of music playing from the speaker on the counter. Jim stood at the stove, stirring the risotto with the kind of careful attention that made it clear he was hyper-focused on not thinking too hard. Across from him, Sunny leaned against the fridge, nibbling on a piece of overpriced sourdough.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” she noted, watching him swirl a fresh pat of butter into the rice.
Jim smirked, adding a splash of broth. “Turns out, you learn a few things when you live in the same house as a surgeon who didn’t trust takeout.”
Sunny huffed a laugh. “Sam would have been the type to measure ingredients by weight and insist on using fresh herbs.”
Jim’s expression flickered—something warm, something lost
