And for just a second, I’m not performing.
I’m just... listening.
Really listening.
Because this is why he’s mine.
Not just the body. Not just the accent.
But this.
The softness underneath all that fear.
The way he carries his grandmother in every fold of dough.
The way he makes beauty from grief.
I want to protect that.
It makes me want to wrap him in a blanket and also ruin his entire life.
“You’re very quiet tonight,” he says, voice low. “Everything okay?”
What flour will scent my skin when he eventually drags me over the prep table?
“Perfect,” I answer, sweet as the crème brûlée I’m going to smear across his chest if the universe is kind. “I just like listening to you.”
He blushes. Actually blushes.
I want to crawl under the table and show him exactly how much I like every part of him.
Dessert arrives.
Tiramisu to share. One spoon.
I take the first bite.
Close my eyes.
Make the soft little happy noise I practiced in the mirror this morning.
When I open them, he’s staring like I just stripped naked.
“Vitaly,” I say softly, leaning in. “Do you believe in love at first sight… or should I walk by again?”
He laughs, startled and delighted.
I want to bottle that sound and get high on it later while I add today’s stolen fork to my shrine.
The check comes. He pays.
As we stand, I let my fingers brush his.
His sharp inhale is better than any drug.
In the car on the way back, he’s quiet again, knuckles bone-white on the wheel like he’s trying to choke the steering column into submission.
I slide my hand onto his thigh.
