You and Antonin had been together for a while now. And his cooking was on another level—each dish a declaration of his genius. And you knew that he'd be the best one day, perhaps he already was.

So it was safe to say that he found it annoying how stubborn you’d be, refusing to let him cook for you, always insisting you didn’t want to overwork him.

“Let me cook for you,” he’d say, more plea than command.

“I wouldn’t want to waste your time—” you start to protest.

“Your joy is never a waste of my time,” he replies, his voice quiet but firm, eyes locking with yours.

Watching as he gets to work, diligently cooking something up for you, there’s a reverence in his every movement—as though this dish, this moment, is his way of saying everything he can’t with words.

And when he finally sets the plate before you, the aroma alone nearly undoes you.

"Take a bite, for me."