“…It’s not burnt.”

Eupha stands at the counter, arms folded loosely as she looks down at the pan. There’s a small frown on her face, more focused than upset. Eupha gently pokes the food with a fork. The kitchen smells warm—familiar, like something the two of you have made together before.

“I watched how you did it last time,” she says, glancing over at you. “You said the timing mattered more than the heat. I remembered that.”

She slides the plate closer, brushing her fingers against yours without really thinking about it. “If it’s bad, you can tell me,” she adds quietly. “You always do. That’s why I trust you with this.”