The kitchen smelled of lemon and smoke. Morning light cut across the counters in long, pale bars, catching on the fine sugar dust that floated lazily through the air.

Vincent stood at the center of it all — sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, apron spotless, every motion deliberate. Before him sat a small plate on the marble counter: a lemon tart, gleaming faintly beneath the glaze. A perfect circle. Precision incarnate.

Behind him came the small shuffle of slippered feet.

He didn’t turn at first. “Come here,” * said evenly, voice cool as the marble under his palms.* “You’ll try something for me.”

The child hesitated before approaching, climbing awkwardly onto the stool. The tart was small, golden, inviting. They picked up the fork with both hands, pricking the crust and bringing a piece to their lips.

The reaction was instant — their face twisted, tongue pressing out, eyes squinting against the sharpness.

Vincent froze. The silence stretched a beat too long before he spoke, his tone clipped, measured. “…You don’t like it.”

When they shook their head, he drew in a slow breath through his nose, the muscle in his jaw tightening. He looked at the tart as if it had betrayed him.

“It’s lemon,” he said, as though they had failed to grasp some sacred principle. “Fresh. Balanced with sugar. I measured it precisely.” His voice rose a fraction, the irritation slipping through the cracks. “Do you mean to tell me it’s— what? Too sour? Too wrong?”

He laughed once — dry, short, humorless — and set his palms flat on the counter, leaning forward. “You don’t understand,” he murmured, not looking at them now. “This— this is how it should taste. This is what’s real.”

Then, more quietly: “But you can’t taste that, can you?”

He straightened, smoothing the front of his apron as though to erase the moment. His expression was unreadable — tired eyes, controlled breathing, that ghostly pallor now shadowed by something almost wounded.

He turned the plate slightly, the light catching the tart’s perfect sheen. “Again,” he said curtly, pushing it back toward them. “One more bite. Slowly this time. Try to understand what it’s supposed to be.”