"That's not cooking, that's grave robbing."
"It's resourceful." He tossed me an apron. "Lesson one: knife skills that won't end in stitches."
He moved behind me, hands covering mine on the knife handle, and suddenly I forgot what vegetables were.
"You're not even pretending this is educational," I accused as his breath hit that spot behind my ear that short-circuited my brain.
"This is completely about proper technique." His lips brushed my neck, proving himself a liar.
"Brad—"
"What? See, the secret to good cooking is—" another kiss, this one at the junction of neck and shoulder, "—proper positioning." His hands found my hips. "And concentration." The third kiss murdered any pretense of vegetable preparation.
"Very professional," I managed, then his mouth was on mine and vegetables became conceptual at best.
When we broke apart, both oxygen-deprived and stupid with it, the produce sat abandoned and neither of us could muster a single fuck to give.
"New plan," Brad announced, voice rougher than it should've been for vegetable chopping. "Pizza."
"Pizza?"
"From scratch. Together. With toppings that would make actual Italians call for UN intervention."
We made the dough from scratch, Brad teaching me how to knead it properly, which led to a flour fight that left us both white as ghosts. We created three pizzas, each more absurd than the last—one with mac and cheese as a topping ("Finn's secret favorite," Brad confided), one with Thai peanut sauce and chicken, and one with Nutella and marshmallows that we agreed never to speak of again.
While they baked—successfully this time—Brad pulled me onto the counter, standing between my knees.
"Tell me something," he said. "Why tonight? Why the dinner production that nearly required FEMA intervention?"
I fidgeted with his shirt. "Maria said something about how you do all the cooking. Made me realize I contribute nothing to the domestic stuff. I just... exist here."
"Stop." He caught my chin, forced me to look at him. "You've taught my son that his inhaler isn't a weakness. You've made him believe he can be anything, even with lungs that betray him. You turned this museum of a house into something alive." His voice dropped. "You made me remember what hoping feels like."
"That's not the same as contributing to—"
"I don't need you to cook. I like cooking. It relaxes me." His thumbs traced my cheekbones. "But I love that you tried. That you watched seventeen videos and took notes and nearly burned down the kitchen trying to do something nice for me."
"Really?"
"Except the almost burning down the kitchen part. Let's not repeat that."
We ate pizza on the living room floor, abandoning plates for paper towels, critiquing our creations with exaggerated seriousness.
"The mac and cheese pizza is actually genius," I admitted.
"Finn invented it during my bachelor disaster phase. Kid's a culinary prophet."
"Tell me about that phase."
Brad leaned back against the couch. "After Sarah died, I forgot how to do everything. Cooking felt like betrayal—every recipe was something she'd taught me or we'd made together. So Finn and I lived on cereal and takeout for three months. Then one day he asked if Mommy took all the recipes to heaven with her, and I realized I had to pull it together."
"Oh, Brad."
"Theo saved us. Showed up every night for two weeks with his Nonna's recipes and aggressive compassion. Taught me that feeding my kid wasn't betraying my wife's memory." He caught my hand. "Then you showed up and made cooking fun again instead of just functional."
"By nearly burning down your kitchen?"
"Our kitchen," he corrected. "And yes. Exactly that."
