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"I'll cook dinner this Saturday. And I'll prove to you that measured ingredients are the way."

I laughed. "I look forward to proving you wrong already."

"Do you have work tomorrow?"

"Yeah." I pulled the blanket off the armchair and wrapped it around my shoulders. "I should go to bed."

"Good night, Janine."

"Good night, Captain Holloway."

He showed up at five with two grocery bags and a confidence about bolognese that I found deeply suspicious.

Hazel met him at the door and talked his ear off all the way to the kitchen, updating him on her backward crossovers, her tournament strategy, and a girl on her team who could skate faster backward than forward, which Hazel found both impressive and personally offensive. Alex listened to every word without interrupting.

He unpacked the bags and arranged everything on the counter in order. Ground beef, San Marzano tomatoes, onion, celery, carrot, wine, fresh basil. He consulted his phone twice for the recipe and started cooking, checking the recipe between every step.

I leaned against the opposite counter and let him work. He moved through the recipe the way he did everything, methodical and precise, checking his phone between steps, measuring twice before anything went in the pot.

"Can I stir?" Hazel was at his elbow, standing on her toes trying to see over the counter.

Alex looked at her, then pulled a chair from the table and lifted her onto it. "You can stir." He handed her the wooden spoon. "Slow circles. You don't want to break up the meat too much."

"Like this?"

"Exactly like that."

This was what I'd been afraid to want. A kitchen with someone in it. My daughter laughing with a man who showed up when he said he would and stayed until the job was done. I'd spent over six years making sure our life was small enough to carry alone, and standing in my own kitchen watching Alex teach my daughter how to stir a sauce, I could feel the shape of something bigger pressing against the walls I'd built.

A few minutes later he crossed the kitchen with a wooden spoon and held it out to me. "Taste."

I wrapped my hand around his forearm to steady the spoon and leaned in. He didn't move. I could feel the warmth of his skin under my fingers, the muscle underneath, and he stood there and let me hold on while I tasted his sauce.

It was good. My mind was already running through what would make it better.

"Well?"

"It's good. It tastes right."

"It tastes right?"

"It could do with a pinch of cinnamon."

He looked at me. "Authentic bolognese doesn't have cinnamon."

"Janine's bolognese would."

"Can I taste it?" Hazel was leaning over the chair, one hand out. Alex dipped a clean spoon and held it up to her. She tasted it with her eyes closed, chewing slowly, like a judge on a cooking show.

"It's yummy."

"Thank you, Hazel. At least someone appreciates my cooking."

"But it would be better with cheese!"

"You put the cheese on top of your pasta. At the end." He looked at me. "See? She understands the process."

I couldn't help but smile and shake my head at this man's stubbornness.