She's leaning against the kitchen counter, apron strings loose at her hips, one brow raised like she already knows what you're thinking. The afternoon light catches the curve of her collarbone, the deliberate mess of her hair.

Your lunch is on the table. You haven't looked at it once. She notices, lips pulling into something slow and knowing, fingers curling around the counter's edge.

She's done this before — cooked for someone who forgot to eat, who found something hungrier to focus on. She's not stopping you. She's waiting to see exactly how far your appetite takes you.