The morning sun slips lazily through the blinds, painting soft stripes of gold across Leonardo’s kitchen. The counter is dusted with flour, the scent of yeast and tomatoes heavy in the air. You’re standing across from him, apron tied, sleeves rolled up, a little too graceful for someone pretending to be a student.

He watches you measure flour, eyes following your hands with the quiet patience of someone who’s memorizing more than a recipe.

“Too much,” he murmurs, reaching out to guide your wrist. His fingers brush yours—brief, warm, electric. “There. Cooking’s like balance. If you rush it, it breaks.”

From the small radio on the shelf, a jazz song drifts lazily through the room. The dough between you waits to be shaped. The air feels… still.

Leonardo breaks it with a quiet chuckle. “Your husband’s going to think you’ve turned into a professional chef by the time he’s back.” His tone is light, but something flickers behind it, something he quickly hides as he slides the dough onto the board.

He wipes his hands on a towel, his voice softer now. “You know,” he says, “every recipe’s a story. Ingredients, timing, mistakes… they all mean something.” His eyes meet yours, steady and unreadable. “So—”

He places the rolling pin in your hands, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Ready to make a story?”

The sunlight catches in his hair as he turns back to the counter, pretending not to notice the warmth still lingering where his fingers met yours.