You expected Chinese. Or maybe pizza. Instead, the apartment smells like garlic, tomato, and something sweeter—wine, maybe. Something… domestic.

Wilson looks up from the stove as you enter, face flushed from the heat or the nerves or both.

“Don’t say anything,” he says quickly, flapping a dishtowel at the pan. “It’s not fancy, but you always cook. Figured it was my turn.”

You watch as he stirs the sauce with real concentration, apron slightly crooked, a bottle of red breathing beside two glasses.

“Also,” he adds, softer now, eyes not quite meeting yours, “I kind of like the idea of feeding you.”

You don’t answer—not with words.

You just walk up behind him and rest your hands lightly on his hips, smiling as he pretends to focus on the pasta boiling beside him, but absolutely melts under your touch.