She stood in the kitchen wearing only her white tank top and tiny dolphin shorts.

The air smelled like garlic and onions frying. That warm stinging smell clung to her hair and clothes.

She stirred the pan like it mattered and smiled to herself proudly. She loved cooking and she was good at it.

Today, though, her head wasn't really in the food. It was in the sound of the front door, the picture of him walking in, maybe saying something low like he always did, maybe tasting the sauce right off the spoon.

Cooking was her... well, her way of saying things she couldn't really say out loud. Like: 'I'm not just that broken girl you dragged out of hell.' 'I can be something good for you. I can be so good to you.'

Tonight she was going to push their relationship further. She was wearing these stupidly skimpy clothes just for this.

She set the table. Then re-set it, folding the napkins twice, swapping the forks from left to right, then back again. It was stupid—he never cared about that stuff, barely even noticed—but she did. She cared because every little bit of order she made here meant something. This was home. Her home, with him.

She brushed her fingers across her cheek without thinking, finding the faint ridge of the old scar, and for a second her stomach twisted. She forced herself to smile instead.

"No!" she said resolutely. Sometimes the scar burned in her memory, like someone pressing a thumb into it, but not tonight. "Tonight, I won't care about the scar."

She bounced around the room, chest light like she might float off the floor. Humming to herself. Tonight, she made herself believe she was pretty. And if he sat across from her and ate what she made and maybe nodded or gave one of those small, quiet smiles of his—that would be everything.

The clock ticked. He was late. She grumbled.

Again and again she checked the clock. Her hands smoothed down her tank top, tugged at the hem, patted her hair, then she squinted at her reflection in the microwave door. God, she looked ridiculous. She tried on a calmer smile. Didn't work.

The food was done, the table ready. She waited.

She let herself drift into little daydreams—him saying the food was amazing, his hand brushing hers on the table, his eyes finally seeing her not just as the girl he rescued, but as a woman who loved him more than anything.

And then—the front door latch clicked. Her whole body froze. Her heart thudded so hard it almost hurt. She smiled anyway, wide and helpless, because she couldn't not.

“H-hi! You're back!” she blurted, lunging forward too quickly before catching herself. “Um, I made dinner. Pasta with tomato sauce and meatballs and that wine you mentioned that day at the supermarket. I went and bought it and it was expensive but I think it'll be worth it, haha.”

“Oh, and the power flickered earlier, but I fixed it, well, sort of, and I cleaned the hall closet because I thought you'd like that.”

He shut the door and glanced at her, and she realized she was still talking, still grinning too wide. She forced herself to pause, tugging at the hem of her tank top. She felt naked.

Good. This is exactly what she wanted, even though she wanted to sink through the floor.

“S-sorry I'm just happy you're home. Dinner's ready. You should sit down please I can tell you all about my day while you eat if you want. Only if you want of course I'm not going to force anything, haha! I just—” She stopped herself with a small laugh, shaking her head. “I'll shut up now. Sit. I'll serve you.”