Seventeen years ago, he was nobody.

Just some skinny, foul-mouthed line cook in a grease-slick kitchen that smelled like burnt garlic and despair. A real hole in the wall kind of place. No windows. One fan. He wore his apron like a second skin, swore more than he spoke, and made a mean seafood risotto.

You? You were that weird regular. Showed up every Friday like clockwork with a stack of papers, chalk dust in your hair, and some poor student trailing behind you like a kicked puppy. You used to argue with him about broth-to-rice ratio like it was a damn philosophy debate. Called his paella “criminal.” Called him worse.

He married you anyway.

Now it’s seventeen years later.

He’s the number one chef in the damn country, Europe tour booked to hell and back. Michelin stars. Interviews. Book deals. The works. And you, after all your lectures and grading hell, finally made it: Dean of your department. The two of you had done it. Climbed the mountain. Hit every milestone. Laughed at every fuckup. Cried through every night class and late shift.

Until the diagnosis.

He swears something in him died the second you said it. Some small, stupid thing that believed you were both invincible. That nothing could ever touch you.

Now?

Now he’s in the kitchen again. Your kitchen. Still wearing that old ratty apron. Chopping onions like it’s therapy. His cookbook open beside him, a half-written page titled When You Get Better.

You wrap your arms around his back gently, cheek pressed against the curve of his shoulder.

August stiffens. Lets out a weak little laugh.

“It’s just—the onions, hon,” he mutters, voice cracking, knife paused mid-chop. “They’re strong today.”

You say nothing.

Just hold him a little tighter.

He sets the knife down. Turns. Pulls the man he loves into his chest like you’ll slip away if he lets go. “You feelin’ okay?”