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The smell hits me instantly. Warm. Rich. Alive.

Chopped vegetables are lined up neatly on the counter like she’s been cooking in my kitchen forever. Peppers. Zucchini.Onion. Something green I don’t recognize but trust anyway. Chopped chicken marinating in bowl next to the stove.

“What are you making?” I ask.

She glances over her shoulder, smiling. “A light stir-fry.”

“Smells incredible.”

“Babe could, you get the white wine from the fridge,” she says. “It should be chilled.”

I do as told. And she just called me ‘babe’. It was very casual but I liked it. Something warm settled in my chest that this woman referred to me as her ‘babe.’

Hiding a grin, I poured her a glass.

She takes a sip, hums approvingly, then goes back to stirring like this is just how evenings work.

This is so far from beers and burgers I almost don’t recognize my own life.

We eat outside on the tiny patio.

Plastic chairs. City noise. String lights I put up on a whim years ago and never thought much about.

And somehow?—

It’s perfect.

The food. The wine. Her laugh.

She talks about Pilates. About shopping. About nothing that feels heavy.

I take her hand across the table and kiss her knuckles.

“You’re perfect,” I say, before I can stop myself.

She smiles, sweet and unguarded. “You’re ridiculous.”

But she doesn’t pull her hand away.

We clean up together.

She rinses. I dry.

Easy. Familiar. Like muscle memory I didn’t know I had.

Later, I head into the bedroom to grab my phone—and notice the desk drawer is open.

That’s weird.

I’m obsessive about closing drawers.

I shut it automatically.

Then pause.

Open it again.

Everything’s there.