“Maybe.” I tuck my hands into the sleeves, pulling myself farther into the cottony warmth, hopefully disguising the large inhale I take to breathe in the scent embedded in the fabric. Coffee and paper. “I do hope you know you’re never getting this back.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up. “You planning on walking around Brooklyn in a Captain America sweatshirt?”

“Hardly. It’ll never see the light of day again.” I cackle like some evil supervillain.

He turns off the burner and dumps the pasta into a strainer. “This probably won’t surprise you, but I have plenty of hoodies, so you’re welcome to keep it.”

“Well, that takes away all the fun, then, doesn’t it.”

“So you’ll give it back?”

“Fuck no.” I already know I’ll be pathetically curling up into it the next time Jack goes out of town and leaves me in the brownstone to fend for myself.

Jack dumps the pasta back into the pot, pours some sauce in, and stirs everything around a few times. He scoops two heaping portions onto separate plates, handing me one before placing the other in front of the seat next to me. After refilling both of our wineglasses, he slides onto the stool.

I hold up my glass. “Thanks for cooking.”

He clinks his against mine. “I’d say anytime, but I know you’ll take that literally, so I’m not going there.”

“You learn fast.” I shovel a forkful of pasta into my mouth, not sure what to expect from a man who has never once in the past four months been seen standing in front of our stove. “Fuck. This is actually really good.”

“Did you doubt me?”

“I mean, yes?” I take another bite. “Yeah, you never should’ve made this for me. I’m going to require this meal at least once a week from this point on.”

Jack laughs and takes a swig of wine. “And how often will you be cooking?”

I shove another huge bite in my mouth to avoid answering. “At least my friends come over and cook,” I say a minute later.

“True.”

We finish the meal in mostly companionable silence, aside from my outbursts of “Damn, this is good” and “You really need to cook more” sprinkled throughout the meal. When we’re both done, I take our plates over to the sink and rinse them before stashing them in the dishwasher.

I pivot back around and meet Jack’s eyes. He’s watching me with an intensity I feel deep down in my core. It ignites a spark in my belly, catching fire when he gives me a slow grin. The spark travels south.

“You ready for bed, or do you wanna watch a movie?” Jack stands and stretches, his T-shirt rising and revealing just a peek of tummy.