Drew made dinner while I headed to my room to take a relaxing lavender bath. Soft instrumental music drifted from the living room, mingling with the aroma of simmering tomato sauce and garlic.
I smiled, warmed by the memory of him cooking. He always took charge of the kitchen, not because I lacked culinary skills, but because his dishes were infused with love and care.
My attempt at cooking, however, remained a humorous memory. I can clearly recall the awkward silence that followed when we finished eating, Drew's tactful absence of praise making me think I'm bad at cooking. His unspoken words still made me chuckle - a gentle roast, a playful jab that only he could deliver. An echo of laughter reverberated inside my head, and my heart swelled with affection. Those moments, though imperfec
