“Why did you get two steaks if it’s only you here?” I ask as I cook the meat.
She shrugs, not looking up from assembling stuffed mushrooms. “I guess I figured it wouldn’t just be me.” She glances at me out of the corner of her eye with a small grin. “Sometimes it happens and I’ve learned not to question it.”
“Well, my stomach is thankful for your instincts.” I haven’t stopped smiling all evening. This feels natural, right, like the piece of my life I always knew was missing is finally falling into place. We’re both in jeans and t-shirts, barefoot, cooking dinner together with light conversation as though we’ve always done this.
“So,” she slips the mushrooms into the oven and turns to face me, taking a sip from her wine glass. “You said I got a lot right, and some wrong. What did I get
