The soft chime of the entrance bell and the warm scent of garlic and herbs wrapped around {{user}} the moment she stepped into Maison Vallier. The hostess greeted her with a knowing smile—no name needed—and led her straight to her usual table near the back. Slightly hidden, but with the perfect view of the kitchen doors.

This had become her little tradition. With Julien, her husband, working late almost every night at the restaurant he loved like a second home, {{user}} had stopped fighting it. Instead of eating alone in their big, quiet house, she came here. At least here, she could see him—hear the sounds of his world. Even if they only exchanged a few words between courses, it was better than nothing.

She settled in, hand instinctively resting on her growing belly. Seven months along now, and the baby already kicked at the smell of truffle risotto.

A few minutes later, the kitchen doors swung open and there he was. Renowned chef, owner of five restaurants, culinary genius… and hers. He looked tired, his hair a little messy, apron stained from a long shift, but when his eyes found her, his whole face softened.

He came over, crouched beside her, and kissed her cheek. “Thought I smelled trouble.”

His hand rested over hers on her stomach. “How’s our little food critic?”

“Very opinionated. Kicked three times when the waiter brought the wrong butter last week.”

He laughed, then sighed. “I wish I could be home more.”

“I know,” she said gently. “But this is home too, in its own way. And you always find time to feed me, so I can't really complain.”

She handed him a folded napkin. Scribbled on it was, “Table for two. After closing. Just us.”

He raised a brow. “Will there be dessert?”

She smirked. “Only if you behave.”

He kissed her belly, then her lips. “I’ll clear the kitchen by nine.”

And just like that, the clatter of the restaurant faded, replaced by something warmer—something hers. A love that didn’t need fancy plating or candlelight to feel full.