“I’m going to say it a lot. Possibly too much.”
“Probably.”
“You should prepare yourself.”
“Gabriel.” She leaned toward him. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He did and for the first time in five days, she felt like she could breathe again.
Chapter 21
TESSA
The apartment smelled like salmon,and it was perfect. She noticed it the moment she stepped through the door, still shaking water from her coat.
Gabriel’s culinary experiments usually ended with burnt edges and apologies, but tonight the scent wrapping through the space was clean, rich, and perfectly seasoned. He’d had help. Knox, surely. It had to be.
The living room was dark except for candles—actual candles, not the string lights Gabriel defaulted to—scattered across surfaces she knew he’d scrubbed, and the nervous energy radiating off him was already a current she could feel the moment he pulled her close.
“You’re here,” Gabriel said from the kitchen doorway, and there it was. That barely-contained current running through his voice, his shoulders, and the way his hand moved to his pocket, then back to his side.
“Where else would I be?” She set her bag down and moved toward him. He looked good—shirt the color of worn denim, sleeves rolled, his jaw working like he was running through a script in his head.
“I made dinner,” he said.
“I can smell it.” She reached for his face, and he kissed her like he’d been waiting all day to do this. He probably had. The kiss tasted like Gabriel, which was her favorite flavor.
When he pulled back, his hand went to his pocket again and then dropped back to his side. She had noticed him do the same thing when she walked in, and now she found herself counting. That made two.
“You okay?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. Something had shifted. The apartment didn’t feel like their usual Tuesday-night refuge—it felt like stage-managed territory, every detail deliberate, every moment accounted for.
“Yeah,” he said, and the lie was so transparent she almost laughed. “Just want tonight to be good.”
“It already is.”
But he wasn’t listening, already moving toward the kitchen, pulling her with him.
The table was set properly—napkins folded, water glasses, and candles scattered here too. The salmon rested on a bed of roasted vegetables, the color a perfect golden-pink. Risotto, creamy and pale as butter.
He’d done this.
He’d really done this.
She sat because he was pulling the chair out for her, because Gabriel in full gentleman-mode was something she’d learned to let happen. He served her carefully, watched her face as she took the first bite.
The salmon dissolved. It was perfectly cooked—tender, flaky, and seasoned with something that tasted like citrus and care. The risotto was exactly as rich as risotto should be.
This wasn’t the Gabriel who’d charred a duck to the surface of the sun.
This was a man who had asked for help, who had practiced until he got it right, and the significance of that—of Gabriel admitting he couldn’t do something and learning it anyway, of preparing this moment—landed somewhere beneath her ribs.
“This is incredible,” she said, and she meant it.
He nodded, but he wasn’t eating. He was pushing food around his plate, his hand moving to his pocket, then his water glass, then back to his pocket again.
“Are you going to eat any of that or are we just staring at it all night?” she asked.
“I’m eating.” He took a bite to prove it, barely chewed. His knee bounced beneath the table.
