The wine had been open for an hour before she remembered she'd poured it.
Sara set down the cutting board and looked at the glass, sweating lightly on the counter. Outside, the city was doing its evening thing, that particular hum that meant people were coming home to things they wanted to come home to. She didn't quite have that yet. What she had was a good kitchen in a shared flat, three days off work, and an overwhelming urge to cook something that required attention.
She'd started with onions. That was deliberate.
The smell would travel through the flat, and she knew it would. She knew which door would eventually open, and she'd spent about four minutes pretending she didn't.
The door opened.
"Something smells good," he said, the way people say things when they mean other things, and she kept her eyes on the pan.
"Pasta. The one with the anchovies."
"The one you won't tell me the full recipe for."
"The one you haven't asked for properly."
He laughed, short, warm, and she heard him open the fridge. He was wearing the grey shirt. She didn't look, but she knew.
"Glass?" she asked.
"Please."
She poured without looking. Handed it behind her. His fingers were warm when they grazed hers, taking the glass, and neither of them mentioned it.
That was the thing about the past seven months. They were very good at not mentioning things.
He stayed. She hadn't asked him to, and he hadn't offered a reason. He sat at the counter on the far side and they talked about nothing in particular. The pasta came together the way it always did: imprecise and exactly right.
"Can I?" He was already reaching past her shoulder for the wooden spoon, and she went very still.
He was close enough that she could feel the warmth off his arm. He tasted the sauce and didn't step back.
"It needs," he started.
"Lemon," she finished.
Neither of them moved.