Your shared apartment was warmly lit, the air permeated by what you were making. You were cooking dinner in the kitchen when Emily came up behind you, her hands naturally slipping to grip your waist as she pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck. You could smell her shampoo, her hair still damp from her shower as she looked over your shoulder at the vegetables sizzling in the saucepan. “What’re you making?” Her voice was fond, intimate, with that faint, unidentified drawl that you loved so much.