Sophie’s eyes close and she hums a content, happy sound. “Perfect,” she purrs. “It tastes like home.”

I lean forward, my mouth open, and she feeds me a forkful. And I thought her vegan version of this was delicious, but this. It’s to die for. The gravy is smoky and warm, the cheese just soft enough to pull as I take it off the fork. The potato actually crunches between my teeth but the inside is velvety smooth. Without ever having to be there I suddenly know exactly what Sophie meant, can feel the cold pushing in against my coat as I stand with her on a sidewalk, surrounded by people speaking a different language and sharing a cardboard box filled with potatoes, cheese, and gravy.

“You’re amazing,” I say around my mouthful. “This. This is what you should make for Camilla.”

Sophie smiles, takes another bite, chasing gravy off her lip with her pink tongue. “It’s street food, Amy. It’s too plain.”

“It’s you,” I say. “And this is anything but plain. You just think that because you’ve been eating it your whole life.”

She hums, like maybe she is contemplating this.

“Well?”

“I’ll think about it,” she says, finally meeting my eyes. But her cheeks are flushed, and her shoulders are set back. She’s proud. “I should clean up.” She looks around at the mess I insisted she make.

“Take off your shirt,” I say.

“Amy.”

“Take it off. Well...” I pause as her eyes get too big to hold in her excitement. “Take it off then show me more of your apartment.”

“Amy,” she growls.

“Then you can come,” I say in a singsong voice.

She presses against me, her chest expanding on a long sigh, the soft knit of her sweater brushing my too hot, sensitive skin. She steps back and in the overhead track lighting, the windows behind her uncovered, she pulls her shirt off in one quick movement. Underneath, she wears a simple black bra with a small bow in the center. Her breasts strain against the fabric; the straps have pulled tight against her shoulders.

“Next room,” I say, and she grabs my hand and takes me out to the living-dining room. This room reflects a bit more of her. There’s a throw blanket on the couch that hasn’t been folded, cookbooks stacked on the coffee table, and the dining table has a collection of half-burned pillar candles in the center. Fifi the cat sleeps in middle of the couch, black with white feet and a little white snip on its nose.

This room looks lived-in even if the decor itself is still nothing like her: different shades of gray with abstract art on the walls.

I come up behind her and lift the strap on her bra, kissing along her shoulder. She moans at the contact, soft and pained, and I push both straps from her shoulders.

“Take off your pants.” I bite the back of her neck and she shudders. She pops the button and wriggles out of her pants, leaving them in a puddle of fabric on her dark hardwood floor.