Exactly 100 words
When I open the bathroom door, I smell bacon. I wander into the kitchen, where Myra is sitting at the counter eating a breakfast that Logan seems to have made.
I gingerly sit next to Myra, and Logan turns from the stove with a plate in hand, and sets it in front of me.
"You really didn't have to cook for us Logan; we could have just gone out."
"I like cooking for you. I rarely get to cook anymore." I knew what he meant. For everyone lately it was just take-outs and order-ins. There was no time for cooking.