She rolled her eyes, flicked her braid over her shoulder. “I brought a thank-you gift. It’s only one serving, because I didn’t want it to seem like a threat.”

He breathed out a laugh. “Is it more of those cheesy bacon potatoes?”

Her face fell. “Oh. No. This is something I made.”

His eyes dropped to the package again. He had no guesses as to what could be in there, didn’t even really know if Nora was any kind of cook, but suddenly he felt hungrier than he had all day.

Than he had in two weeks, two days.

“I didn’t really like those potatoes,” which was half a lie. He liked them fine, when there weren’t ten pounds of them. He just wanted to know what Nora had made him.

“It’s manicotti. Homemade sauce. My nonna—”

He held out his hand, beckoned for the dish. “Lemme try it,” he said impatiently.

She clutched it tighter. “You can’t eat in a parking lot.”

He furrowed his brow. He’d eaten a lot of food in this parking lot. Last night when he’d gotten off his shift he’d shoved an entire hunk of stale corn bread from the cafeteria into his mouth before unlocking his bike. He was still chewing when he’d pedaled away. He hadn’t even tasted it.

“This is my best dish. You can’t disrespect it like that! This is a tablecloth kind of meal.”

She had this look in her eyes, one he recognized—the what a nice houseplant, here’s a laurel wreath, I found you some kittens look. Part mischief, part triumph. He’d missed that look. If he had a lapel, he’d probably be smoothing it.

“Is that right?” he said, then shrugged. “I don’t have a tablecloth.”

She traced the tip of her finger over the loopy, colorful fabric of the package, and that—that was even more dangerous than the grin. He felt that finger’s path in the kind of way that was going to make for a very uncomfortable bike ride home, unless he got control over himself.

She blew out a gusty, exaggerated sigh. “Well I don’t know what to tell you then,” she said. “It’s a shame you won’t be able to en—”

“I’ve got an idea,” he interrupted, and she practically beamed at him.

Rash, reckless, selfish, that stubborn voice said to him, but he was so hungry—for her food, for that smile, for her—that at the moment, he couldn’t make himself care. And anyway, it’s not like his idea was to take her back to the building. This was different; this was separate.

This was safe.

“Let’s go,” he said.

In a pinch, the jacket he had stuffed in his backpack made for a fine tablecloth.