"I remember you almost setting the kitchen on fire."
"That wasone time, and it was the oven's fault, not mine."
I grin, finishing with the cheddar and moving on to the gruyere she hands me next. "Whatever you say, chef."
She leans into me briefly as she passes, her hip bumping mine, and I feel the warmth of her even through layers of clothing.
"How's the club been?" she asks, stirring the sauce slowly as it thickens. "You said Hansen had a meeting this morning."
"Yeah. Nothing major. Just coordination stuff with the other chapters. Making sure everyone's on the same page for the spring runs." I dump the grated cheese into the bowl she's set out. "Miller's already starting to complain about logistics, which means it's going to be a smooth season."
She laughs. "Miller complains when things are goingwell?"
"Miller complains as a form of quality control."
"That's the most Miller thing I've ever heard."
The pasta finishes boiling, and she drains it while I finish grating the last of the cheese. We work in tandem, her folding the pasta into the sauce, me adding cheese in stages like she directs, both of us taste-testing with the same spoon until she's satisfied. She pours the whole thing into a baking dish, tops it with breadcrumbs mixed with melted butter, and slides it into the oven with a satisfied nod.
"Thirty minutes," she announces, setting a timer. "And then you're going to admit this was worth it."
"I already think it's worth it," I tell her, catching her around the waist and pulling her back against my chest. "Watching you boss me around in my own kitchen is entertaining."
"Ourkitchen," she corrects, leaning into me. "And I'm not bossy. I'morganized."
"Right."
She turns in my arms, grinning up at me, and I kiss her because she's right there and I can.
When the timer goes off, we pull the mac and cheese, golden and bubbling and smelling so good my stomach growls audibly. Megan plates it with the kind of care that makes me think she's secretly proud of herself, and we settle at the table, knees knocking together, Bullet lurking hopefully at our feet.
"This is dangerous," I tell her after the first bite, and she looks smug.
"Told you."
We eat until we're full and the dishes are piled in the sink, and then we migrate toward the fireplace without discussing it, carrying our wine and the comfortable weight of a evening that doesn't need to be anything other than this.
Megan settles on the rug in front of the fire, and I drop down behind her, letting her lean back against my chest while I stretch my legs out on either side of her.
Bullet claims the armchair, curling into a tight ball and watching us with half-closed eyes.
"You know," Megan says after a while, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my forearm, "I never thought I'd end up here."
"In the mountains?"
"With you. Cooking mac and cheese. Living in a cabin with a cat who thinks he's a person." She tilts her head back to look at me, smiling. "It's kind of perfect."
I brush a strand of hair away from her face, letting my hand linger. "Yeah. It is."
She shifts, turning more fully toward me, and her expression softens into something playful. "You remember the first time I saw you?"
"Vaguely."
"Liar. You remember everything." She grins. "I thought you were terrifying. And hot. Mostly terrifying."
"And now?"
"Now I know you're a marshmallow who lets a cat steal your side of the bed and makes me coffee every morning without asking."
