He demonstrates the Heimlich on the adult vest. Shows parents how to do back blows on the CPR baby. Explains the difference between choking and coughing. His voice is calm, clear, reassuring. The same voice he probably uses when someone’s actively dying and he needs them to stay conscious.
My brother, the actual hero.
Meanwhile I’m over here trying not to combust every time my boss looks in my general direction.
The demo takes exactly five minutes. Parents exhale. A few pull out their phones to take notes, then remember the “no filming” rule and put them away sheepishly.
“All right,” I say when Ethan steps back. “Let’s cook.”
I guide them through the basics. Zesting citrus while counting breaths. Whisking eggs with one-two-three hand squeezes when arms get tired. Smelling herbs and naming what they notice. Nothing complicated. Just presence and process.
Ben is at her station next to me, carefully measuring flour. Frederick sits propped against her measuring cup. She’s doing the breathingwithout me prompting her. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and steady.
Marco’s watching from the side. Not hovering. Just present. And the look on his face when Ben laughs at something Matteo’s daughter says is the kind of expression that makes my throat tighten.
When you realize you’re not just falling for the hot billionaire.
You’re falling for the single dad who just wants his daughter to feel safe.
Cool cool cool.
Everything is fine.
I shake it off and keep teaching. We move through stations. Tasting. Adjusting. Naming flavors instead of just consuming them. The kids are surprisingly good at this. Better than adults, actually. They don’t overthink. They justexperience.
Halfway through, I feel the urge to pull out my phone. To capture this moment. To film the way Ben’s curls bounce when she stirs. To post about community over content. To prove to the algorithm that I still exist.
The urge is so strong I actually reach for my pocket.
My eyes drift to Sabrina’s note by the entrance.
Values over visibility.
I leave my phone where it is.
We plate family-style. Everyone contributes something. The line cook’s son made a “salad” that’s mostly cucumbers. André’s niece created a “fancy butter” situation with herbs and salt that’s actually impressive. Ben sprinkled paprika on roasted vegetables and announced they were “brave carrots” because we repeatedly counted to three while they cooked.
And then Marco sets a plate in front of me.
Spaghetti all’astice.
Myfavoritedish.
The one I mentioned that first night at the bar when we were still pretending this wasn’t going to become complicated.
“You remembered,” I whisper, blinking sudden tears away.
He looks at me so tenderly, just sets down a fork and says quietly, “I remember everything.”
The words land like a confession.
Oh.
Oh no.
This might not just be sex and lust.
This might actually be... something.
