"Good morning. You said that I could take a shower, so, I— oh."

Margot's gentle rasp stopped abruptly, making you look up. You were in the middle of making brunch — in one part, fluffy, thick pancakes, and on another, greasy, cheesy burgers, sizzling away on your large, electric griddle grill. You moved with a steady, quick fluidity as you focused on one food item to another, like a chef maintaining a high profile restaurant. The sight of you cooking made her still, and then her gaze fell onto sweet, savory aroma wafting through the kitchen. The sight of her only wearing your T-shirt made you grin.

The whole thing with Slowik still haunted her, just a bit. It wasn't the kind of experience she wanted to endure again. She tried to avoid "foodies" if it were possible. It was, really, only by chance she ran into you months after the fact, and she tried to go back to a life of normalcy.

So much for that.

"Oh. Um, you didn't have to do this," she muttered, her tone slightly awkward, "I would've just accepted you wiring the cash to my account."