His gaze drifted over my face, then lower. Tracing the line of my jaw. The curve of my neck. The dip of my collarbone where my shirt gaped open just slightly. His eyes lingered there a second too long, and I felt the air shift between us.
My breath caught.
It wasn't just curiosity. It wasn't the casual glance of someone checking out an old friend after years apart. It was something hungrier. Something that made my skin feel too warm and my heart beat too fast. His pupils were darker than they'd been a moment ago, dilated in the low light of the kitchen, and I could see the slightest tension in his jaw — like he was holding himself back from something.
And in that look, I saw something I hadn't seen since that summer night. The night before he vanished. The night before everything between us ended.
The memory hit me hard enough to steal my breath.
The porch light flickering. The sound of crickets in the dark. His hand on my cheek, rough and warm. The space between us disappearing until I could feel his breath on my lips.
"Teddy," he'd whispered, and his voice had been different. Softer. Like he was saying something he'd been holding back for years.
I forced myself to look away first.
Rhett blinked, like he'd just realized what he was doing, and turned toward the stove. He grabbed a pot from the rack and set it on the burner with more force than necessary.
"You're cooking?" I asked, my voice slightly higher than normal.
"Yeah." He didn't look at me. "It's late, and you look half-frozen. Sit down."
"What are you cooking?" I asked, sliding onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.
He smirked without turning around. "What would you like?"
I thought about it. What would I like to eat? What was something he cooked so well that I actually missed? I missed a lot of his cooking — the way he'd make pancakes on Saturday mornings when I slept over, the way he'd pack me lunch before school when my parents were too busy working, the way he'd grill fish in the summer and pretend he wasn't showing off.
But if there was one thing I missed the most...
"Chicken Bolognese?" I said.
He paused, turning to face me with a raised brow.
I smiled. The words chicken Bolognese had always pissed him off, even when we were kids. He always said it made no sense. Maybe because his parents were chefs. Maybe because he actually cared about food in a way I never would. Maybe because he was a purist at heart, even when he pretended not to be.
"I must be crazy," he muttered.
"It's just chicken," I said, laughing.
"Bolognese is a beef-based ragù," he said, his voice taking on that lecturing tone I remembered too well. "What the fuck is chicken Bolognese?"
"Exactly what it sounds like," I said. "Replace your beef with chicken. It's not that complicated."
"Do you even hear yourself?" He opened his fridge and started pulling out ingredients — beef, not chicken. Obviously.
I laughed. Some things never changed.