Baz was an excellent cook. This was a relatively new development I assumed, because I haven’t noticed it before. Though, I haven’t given much attention to anything lately. Obviously he’s cooked food for the both of us before, but surely he’s been practicing.

Dinner sat warmly in my stomach, it’s delicious taste still lingering on my tongue. Baz was at the sink, rinsing off our plates. He wore simple, casual clothes — nice-fitting trousers and a nice-fitting shirt (everything Baz owned complimented every aspect of him perfectly.) His hair was in a little ponytail, which was cute.

I get up from the table and walk up beside Baz. Baz’s head turns to me, and I’m struck with how pretty he was. How pretty he always managed to look, no matter how he was feeling. Unlike me. I was…

I reach out and brush my hand against Baz’s elbow, my fingers trailing across the back of his upper arm. “Thanks for dinner,” I say quietly. “It was good.”

Baz stares at me. He looks oddly startled. My hand drops away from his arm and his silvery eyes snap down, staring at the place my hand had been like my touch was alien.