Steam fogged the windows, coating them in a soft blur that caught the streetlight glow like smudged gold. Inside, the air smelled of burnt garlic and too many revisions. The kitchen was too small for two people with this much tension. Pans clattered unnecessarily. The old stove hissed like it had something to say. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, arms dusted in flour, shoulders hunched like she could carry everything on her back if it meant she’d get this damn menu right.

He stood by the sink, sleeves rolled, tie askew, the day’s weight hanging off him like an overcoat. Papers spread on the counter. Permits, projections, designs. Logistics had a sour taste in his mouth now. She barely looked at him when she moved, sharp and practiced, like she was carving space with each step. Their shoulders brushed once—accidentally—and neither said sorry.

They’d been like this for days. Weeks. Somewhere between late nights and supplier fights, the giddy early days blurred. There were no more stolen kisses over wine-stained napkins, just half-spoken critiques and cold coffee. This was what building something together looked like: beautiful, hard, and cruelly unromantic.

“I’m changing the dessert,” she muttered, wiping a smudge off the plating.

“You changed it yesterday.”

“I’m changing it again.”

He closed the folder with more force than necessary. “You can’t keep doing this. We open in two weeks. We’re out of money and time, and—” He cut himself off, exhaling like he wanted the frustration to leave with it. “You don’t have to prove everything by yourself.”

Her jaw tightened. She didn’t respond. The silence stretched—thick, familiar, like a second skin.

The clock ticked past midnight. Rain tapped against the glass, soft and rhythmic, almost kind. A fan hummed somewhere in the ceiling, and for a second, the chaos felt suspended.

He looked at her, really looked, past the fatigue, past the pride. “You don’t have to win this fight if it means losing us,” he said, voice low, steady. “I’m not your enemy.”