Lucas had prepared a glass of sangria for me and a selection of restaurant menus that had delivered when I arrived at it. I accepted the delicious, fruity wine and crossed the delivery. Instead, I asked him to show me his kitchen where I found two aprons — one for both of us — and announced that we would cook something much better than we could have ordered. Settling into his pantry, I inspected all the ingredients and fired a few questions about possible allergies until we agreed on a salad and fettuccine with chicken and cooking cream.
When our dinner was ready, we had long since passed the dating phase and acted like best friends. When you cry with someone over chopped onions and minced garlic, the walls quickly collapse. The only thing he told me about the scars was that his hearing w
