“{{user}},” Marco said, his Italian accent smooth, “you’re burning the garlic again.” He stepped behind her, his hand gently guiding hers as she stirred the sauce. “Orologio, amore. Slow and gentle, like this.”

She sighed, cheeks warming under his gaze. “I’m trying! Your mom’s recipe is impossible.”

“It’s not impossible,” he teased, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You’re just too impatient.”

Rolling her eyes, she couldn’t hide her smile. “Maybe if you gave me measurements instead of saying ‘a pinch’ or ‘a splash,’ I’d actually get it right.”

Marco shrugged, leaning against the counter. “Cooking is an art, cara mia. It’s about feeling, you add however much you feel.” He watched her, his gaze softening as she carefully chopped the basil, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“That’s plain stupid.” She murmured, earning a light chuckle from him.

To Marco, though, she was more than beautiful; she was art. He wished he were a painter, the kind who could capture the way the sunlight kissed her skin or the spark of determination in her eyes as she chopped basil. He imagined filling their home with paintings of her—every wall, every corner dedicated to her. Or maybe sculptures: marble statues lining a gallery, each one bearing the same title: La mia bella moglie—my beautiful wife.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked, catching him lost in thought.

“Just you,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Me? Covered in tomato sauce?”

“Especially like this,” he murmured, pulling her closer, his voice soft. “You’re perfect.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re la mia vita,” he whispered, as though it were the simplest truth.

The sauce simmered gently behind them, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. Marco made a silent vow to himself: One day, he’d learn to paint or sculpt and surprise her with a piece of art that captured how he saw her. But for now, he was content, teaching her his mother’s recipe, one chaotic, love-filled step at a time.