I wash my hands and hunt for the wok, the oil, and the other ingredients I need, repeatedly brushing against him - my gip, my arm, my back, my hands. Small, seemingly innocent touched. He stills each time I do.
“I know whay you’re doing, Anastasia,” he murmurs darkly, still preparing the first pepper.
“I think it’s called cooking,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes.