"Why don't you open the wine?" I gesture to the bottle on the counter, needing to give her something to do that won't ruin dinner. "Let it finish breathing."
"Okay!" She picks up the bottle with both hands, examining the label closely. "Barolo. Very nice. Very expensive too, from the looks of it."
"I thought you'd appreciate quality wine."
"I do appreciate it! Although I should warn you, I'm not much of a wine drinker usually." She sets the bottle down. "Do you have any soda? Or juice? Something non-alcoholic?"
I close my eyes briefly, summoning patience. "You don't want the wine I specifically selected."
"I want to try it! Of course I do." She's opening my refrigerator now, examining the contents. "But I'll probably want something else after I taste it. Just to have options, you know?"
She pauses, staring into my nearly empty fridge. "You don't have much in here. Just some basics."
"I don't cook at home often." I'm defensive now, aware of how sparse my refrigerator looks.
"We should change that. When I move in, I'll stock it properly." She's taking mental inventory. "You need vegetables. Fresh fruits. Dairy products. Normal drinks that aren't just water and beer. I'll make a list of essentials. Also plenty of vegan choices."
“Are you vegan now? I made veal.”
“Sometimes,” she says. “Usually on Mondays.”
I turn back to the risotto, stirring mechanically, my carefully planned romantic dinner dissolving into chaos. This is not how this evening was supposed to go. Nothing is going according to plan.
"Can I help with anything else?" she asks, appearing at my elbow.
"No. I have it under control."
"Are you sure? I'm actually a pretty good cook. My mother made sure I learned all the traditional dishes. I could help plate or something."
I doubt that severely, given what I've seen so far. "I'm sure. I have it handled."
"Okay, but if you change your mind, just let me know!" She leans against the counter next to me, too close, invading my personal space. "This is nice, isn't it?"
"What is?" I'm focused on rescuing the risotto from her earlier assault.
"This. You cooking. Me here in your kitchen. Very domestic. Like we're already married."
"Very chaotic," I correct. "This is very chaotic."
"Chaos is just unexpected change." She smiles at me, that infuriating smile that makes me want to both kiss her and strangle her. "You should embrace it. Learn to go with the flow."
"I don't want to embrace chaos. I want order and predictability."
"Too late for that. You're engaged to me." She says it like it's a fact of nature, unchangeable.
She's not wrong, unfortunately.
I finish the risotto, then plate everything. The presentation is perfect, restaurant quality. The osso buco is tender, the meat falling off the bone. The gremolata I've sprinkled on top is bright and fresh, adding color and flavor. The risotto is creamy and perfectly cooked despite her interference.
I bring both plates to the table with satisfaction. She follows, carrying the wine glasses carefully.
"This looks incredible," she says, sitting down with obvious appreciation. "You really know how to cook. I'm impressed."
"Thank you." The compliment pleases me more than it should.
I pour the wine into both glasses. She takes a sip, makes an appreciative sound that's almost sensual.
"That's really good. Smooth."
