I’m barefoot, standing at the stove in one of his old sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up to my elbows. The pot of sauce simmers while I stir with one hand, phone in the other.
MOM
We’re short-staffed. I hope you’re not planning another vacation.
I stare at it for a second, long enough for the meaning to sink in, then lock the phone and turn it face-down.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nathaniel glance over. A mere flicker of attention, a pause in the rhythm of his slicing—but then he looks away and says nothing.
He’s at the island beside me, dicing tomatoes with a level of precision that would make a professional chef jealous. The bladeglides through each one without resistance. There isn’t a piece of pulp out of place.
I watch him, trying not to look too impressed.
“Are you trying to earn a Michelin star or something?” I tease, nudging his hip. “It’s just dinner.”
He doesn’t look up. “You’re the one who wanted to cook tonight.”
“Yeah, but you’re the reason it’ll actually taste good.”
He finally glances over, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Well, your sauce smells amazing.” A pause. “Maybe just a little less garlic next time, though, unless you’re trying to keep me at bay.”
I laugh, swatting his forearm with the spoon.
“This is me taking care of you for a change, just so we’re clear.”
“I know,” he says simply, cobalt eyes still on me. “That’s why I’m letting you.”
The words settle between us like steam from the stovetop—warm, slow-rising, impossible to ignore.
Nathaniel is good at everything. The kind of good that looks effortless but never arrogant. Butthis—the way he slices with intention, cleans as he goes, lines everything up just so—this is different. It’s domestic. Intimate. It makes something flutter in my chest.
“Okay, but seriously,” I say, my tone softening, “How are you this good at cooking? Didn’t you have a fleet of private chefs growing up?”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he wipes down the cutting board. “We did. But I moved out when I was eighteen. Spent two weeks eating like a frat boy before I decided I’d rather learn than live off frozen pizza.”
“And you just…got good at it?”
He shrugs. “I like knowing what to expect. With cooking, if you follow the rules, things turn out well. That’s always made sense to me.”
He tips the bowl of chopped tomatoes into the pan. The sizzle flares between us.
I watch him, quieter now. “And do you know what to expect tonight?”
He leans in, brushing his lips over my temple. “I already know it’ll turn out all right.”
That’s him. Always thinking ahead. Always angling for control. But tonight, he’s handing it to me. Just enough to let me feel like I have something to offer.
But I don’t. I swallow it down and pivot to something lighter, lifting the spoon to offer him a taste.
“Careful,” I say, a teasing lilt to my voice. “It’s been vetted by exactly one very biased chef.”
He tastes it without comment, deliberating for a moment before looking at me with that knowing smile of his. “Biased, maybe,” he says. “But still talented.”
That earns him a grin and a kiss to his cheek. The moment doesn’t fix anything, but it cracks open a window of ease—just wide enough to step through.
The rest of the cooking session passes in the same rhythm we’ve fallen into all week—banter traded like warm bread, laughter echoing against the tile, touches that linger. I plate the pasta while he lights the candles on the dining table. It’s a small thing, but it makes dinner feel like more than a meal.
I lean back against the island, watching him move—fitted black tee clinging to his frame as he places cutlery with the kind of effortless precision that makes even setting a table look like an art form. There’s something breathtaking about the contrast between his grace and the sheer physicality of him that always leaves me a little breathless.
