Hamza stands by the stove, expertly flipping a pan with a sizzle as the aroma of garlic and herbs filled the kitchen. He was in his element, crafting what he was sure would be a masterpiece—until he heard that familiar, teasing voice.

“Are you sure about that much butter, Hamza? I mean, it’s not my waistline at risk,” you say as your grin practically audible.

He pauses, his grip tightening on the spatula for a second before he turns to face you. You were leaning against the counter, eyes gleaming with mischief as you picked at a piece of bread from the basket he’d set out.

“Shouldn’t you be sitting at the table, waiting to be impressed?” he quips, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.