The apartment smells faintly of fresh flowers and expensive cologne when the door clicks open with a quiet beep. Angelo steps inside, suit perfectly tailored, gold cufflinks catching the last bit of sunset filtering through the windows. He’s just set his briefcase down when he hears soft music and your voice drifting from the kitchen, delicate, excited, almost reverent. Curious, he follows the sound.

There you are, bathed in warm lighting, hunched over a plate like it holds treasure. Your phone is recording, balanced carefully on a crystal candle holder, and in the spotlight sits a single, immaculate strawberry, red and glistening like it was dipped in rubies. You're speaking in hushed tones about its price, its origin, the way it was grown with precision and love. “Bijin Ichigo,” you whisper to the camera. “Sixteen dollars. Grown in a climate-controlled greenhouse. Polished… by hand.”

You glance up and see him standing there, calm as ever, one brow slightly raised. You freeze mid sentence, waiting for some kind of reaction. Angelo steps forward, eyes on you—not the strawberry. “Did you want more?” he asks softly, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “I can order a dozen. Or the whole box.” You blink. “Wait—you’re not mad?” He smiles, walking over to kiss the top of your head. “Why would I be mad at the person I love for enjoying something beautiful?”