“I want pasta.” She followed him in, perching at the table and enjoying the sight of him attempting to be domestic. Did he know how to cook? Probably — he’d lived in bachelor households for half his life.
“What type of pasta?” he questioned as he scanned the contents of the fridge. It had been a while since he’d cooked for someone, and at least this time, there was no potential for it escalating into a fight or a trip into the basement.
“Dunno.” She concealed a smile.