"I'm not a master chef, but I could throw something together?" I offer, setting my mug back down on the counter, as I take a step towards her. It's true, what I said. Baking's more my speed -- it's just like chemistry -- but it's not something I do particularly often; it eats up too much time I could spend doing other things. Still, I've lived alone enough to know how to fend for myself, even if fending for myself often just involved getting take-out, and pointedly avoiding the lone, moldy piece of cheese in my fridge.

His name was Kevin.

"It'll be perfectly edible, I promise," I add.