With her hair over her shoulder in a loose braid, she was barefoot in yoga pants and a clingy sweater, humming between him and the stove, absently stirring pasta sauce with one hand. They’d cooked it three nights in a row, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her he was sick of Italian, because she was so proud of herself for learning to make sauce. He’d eat it for a decade straight as long as she held her breath for the first bite and clapped when he gave her a thumbs-up.
omg i am in love with this man
