Arthur stood barefoot in the soft glow of the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, the sizzle of steak filling the quiet warmth of his apartment. Maggie sat cross-legged on the counter, watching him with that small smile that always knocked the wind out of him. Two plates, one candle, a worn-out vinyl humming low in the background—it wasn’t fancy, but it was them. After dinner, she snapped a photo: Arthur mid-laugh, fork in hand, eyes only on her.

He looked at her and said softly, “Y’know, I could eat a hundred dinners just like this… long as you’re sittin’ across from me.”