“Smooth,” I comment.
“Don’t start.”
I step closer to correct the angle of the knife in his grip. My chest brushes his shoulder. It’s deliberate, and he knows it.
“Cut finer,” I murmur near his ear. “You’re butchering it.”
“I’m not?—”
“You are.”
He huffs, but he adjusts. When he gets it right, I nod approvingly. “See? Teach you a few tricks and you’re unstoppable.”
His gaze flicks to mine at that, heat flashing briefly before he reins it in. “Careful.”
“With what?”
“Your phrasing.”
I grin and step back before he can retaliate.
The kitchen fills with sound—oil crackling, a spoon against the side of a pot, the low hum of the vent. It’s easy. We move around each other without colliding. He hands me spices before I ask. I taste and adjust salt. He squeezes lime over the salsa and winces when it splashes his knuckles.
“Chef,” I tease.
“Shut up.”
I lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth anyway.
While the chicken simmers, we settle into that waiting lull that comes with real cooking. He leans against the counter, arms folded loosely, watching me check the rice.
“You’re happy,” he says quietly.
I don’t deflect. “Yeah.”
He nods like he expected that answer.
There’s something grounding about this. About the weight of a wooden spoon in my hand. About knowing exactly how long to let something cook because I watched my mother do it a hundred times. About Ollie standing in my space like he belongs there.
This is the thing I didn’t let myself imagine for years.
Not the spectacle. Not the headlines.
This.
The timer dings softly. I turn off the heat and fluff the rice with a fork. Steam rises, tinted faintly red. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth and home.
Ollie reaches for a spoon and steals a bite before I can stop him.
“Hey.”
He hums around the food. “That’s good.”
“Of course it’s good.”
He steps closer and presses his mouth to my temple, brief and unselfconscious. “You’re ridiculous,” he says.
“You married me.”
