My cheeks warmed, and I hated myself for it. I shoved another bite into my mouth just to avoid answering. The pasta was still delicious, creamy with a hint of spice, the kind of meal that lingered on your tongue. I wanted to ask how he’d made it, but I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I cared.

The clinking of forks against plates filled the silence. I tried not to look at him, but I couldn’t help it. My eyes betrayed me, darting up every few seconds, ...