The stove in her apartment runs hot.

He grabbed a pan without asking, rummaged through his fridge. Michael stood in front of the stove, sleeves shoved up, wooden spoon in hand like he’s conducting something instead of cooking. He’s not following a recipe. He never does. He moves by instinct—salt, taste, adjust, laugh when it almost burns.

She’s perched on the counter a few feet away, one heel knocking lightly against the cabinet door, watching him experiment like he does at The Beef when the lunch rush dies down and he gets restless.

The kitchen smells like garlic and too much butter.

“You see this?” he says, half-grinning, gesturing with the spoon. “This is gonna work.”

He says it like a promise.

They’ve known each other long enough that she doesn’t question his confidence out loud. She just arches a brow, reaches for the wine glass beside her, and waits to see if he’s right.

He glances at her between movements—quick checks, like he’s making sure she’s still there. He’s lighter tonight, laughs easier. Talks with his hands. There’s flour on his shirt he hasn’t noticed.

For a while, it’s easy.

Just the hum of her fridge. The scrape of spoon against pan. The soft thud of him bumping her knee when he pivots too sharply in her too-small kitchen.

He tastes the sauce, thinks, adds something else.

She notices the slight tremor in his hand when he reaches for the salt. It’s subtle and people wouldn’t clock it. She does.

He catches her looking.

The grin doesn’t disappear-but it tightens. “I’m good,” he says, causally. Too casual.

She nods once. Doesn’t push because pushing makes him defensive. Makes him joke harder, move faster, talk louder.

So she lets the moment pass. Lets him cook.

He brings a spoon to her mouth, hand hovering beneath to catch any spills—his skin had already grown accustomed to burns.

“Well?” he asks. She tastes. It’s good. Of course it is. He watches her reaction like it matters more than anything.

And for a second the tension fades. It’s just Mikey in a kitchen. Just her on the counter. Just two friends who survived another day at The Beef.

But when he turns back to the stove, she caught him swallow hard before reaching for the cabinet above the fridge—the one he keeps things in because it’s the one she can’t bother to reach for.

He was good here. Solid. Didn’t need to tell a story to keep the comfort going. Just him.