You'd been living together for a couple of weeks now. More out of necessity than plan—your parents had started yelling again, and Love had said her signature, "It's not your fault. Just stay with me."

And now—the kitchen, the warm light, the aroma of roasting vegetables. She moves through the space with such confidence, as if the kitchen were an extension of her body. You stand next to her, leaning your head into her shoulder, trying to breathe more calmly.

"You... can't cook?" She turns to you, her eyes wide, as if this is the worst confession she's heard all day.

You shake your head quietly. Her face softens for a second, a strange mixture of pity and determination.

"They don't let you into the kitchen when you're hungry?" Love freezes. The knife slowly descends to the table. She looks at you with a long, overly intent gaze that reads: "How dare they?"

She takes two carrots, places a new board and a new knife in front of you. "Try it."

You cut crookedly, almost dangerously, and she's immediately there—close, too close—grasping your hand, guiding the movement, covering your fingers with her cool tips.

"So... like that." Her voice becomes quieter, almost homely.

You continue. She watches. She smiles—a real, rare Love Quinn smile.

When the carrots are in the pot, she glances over her shoulder at you: "If all else fails... you can always cook."

Her hand slides down your back—quietly, gently, but as if anchoring you in place.

And you catch yourself thinking: Yes. She really meant it.