I know this because the smoke alarm is audible from the stairwell and because the particular smell drifting under her door suggests optimism followed by betrayal.
I let myself in. I have a key now. This still feels like winning something quietly important.
The kitchen is chaos. Flour on the counter. A pan emitting a faint hiss of resentment. Chloe in the middle of it all, wielding a tea towel like she’s about to negotiate a ceasefire.
“This is under control,” she says, loudly, to no one.
I reach up and silence the alarm. Years in professional kitchens have made this muscle memory. The flat immediately feels calmer, as though it has accepted my authority.
She turns to me, eyes bright and slightly wild. “I was cooking for you.”
“I can see that,” I say carefully.
“It was going well until it wasn’t.”
I peer into the pan. “What was it meant to be?”
She hesitates. “Romantic.”
I kiss her temple, because this is not the moment for analysis. “You know you don’t have to cook for me.”
“I wanted to,” she insists. “I am capable of feeding my boyfriend.”
The word still lands softly and heavily every time.
“I don’t doubt that,” I say. “I just doubt this pan.”
“I’ll order pizza,” I say as I step back into the living room to get away from the smoke still lingering in the kitchen.
Hadrian watches from his rock, unmoved by human struggle. We have reached a cordial truce. He tolerates me. I respect his authority.
Chloe follows me, big grin on her face like this is the best idea anyone has ever had. “Thank you.”
I wrap an arm around her waist, solid and familiar now. Three months of ordinary evenings. Of dates conducted openly. Of sex all over kitchens and bathrooms and a strict and respected no-car policy. Three months of choosing each other without needing a crisis to justify it.
“You tried,” I say. “That counts.”
She leans into me, forehead against my chest. “I survived a media scandal. This pan defeated me.”
I laugh and hold her a little tighter.
And because I am apparently a man who has learned nothing about timing, my mouth opens and betrays me.
“I love you.”
The words just… fall out. No drumroll. No kneeling. No smoke alarm accompaniment. Just there, suddenly, hanging between us like I’ve set something fragile down on the coffee table.
She goes very still.
Slowly, she leans back and looks up at me, eyes searching my face like she’s checking for small print.
“…Are we doing this now,” she asks carefully. “The love thing.”
I swallow. “We can absolutely pretend I said something else. I’m quite flexible.”
She stares at me for another beat. Then she snorts, a wet, surprised sound she doesn’t quite manage to control.
“You choosethismoment,” she says. “Smoke. Trauma. Pizza pending.”
