The kitchen smells like garlic and onions, warm and inviting, the kind of scent that makes your stomach rumble even though you weren’t particularly hungry before. Everett stands at the counter chopping vegetables, the rhythm of his knife steady and confident. You’re perched on the counter across from him, stirring the pasta sauce and stealing glances at him whenever he’s not looking.

“You know,”

He says without looking up

“You’re stirring that like you’ve never cooked in your life.”

His voice is teasing, low, just enough to make you smile.