There’s a particular kind of magic in sharing a meal. It isn’t just the flavors, it’s the pause it creates, the quiet between bites, the way laughter sounds richer when it’s spoken over clinking cutlery and warm plates. Food fills the stomach, yes, but company fills the rest.

Stephan had understood that long before he could put it into words. His mother, sharp-tongued in that unyielding German way—“Iss ordentlich, Stephan!”—raised him with one hand firm on his shoulder and the other guiding him through recipes. She became both parents the day his father left, teaching him how to mend what was broken, how to offer care without asking for anything in return, and how to cook with heart.

Necessity turned to habit. Habit turned to passion. Cooking stopped being something he simply did, it became the way he existed. Without it, he felt like a bird with clipped wings. With it, he could make the world stand still.

He started in his own kitchen, feeding friends and neighbors. Word spread. The tables he set became fuller. And then, you. The food critic whose words could make or break a chef’s dreams. Your review was supposed to be just another line in the paper, but instead, it cracked his world open. Overnight, reservations became a battle. Still, Stephan made time for each patron, armed with that smile, the devastating one, that made the wait feel worth it.

He saved enough to buy his own place. Built a menu from the ground up. Learned that joy could be measured in the light in a diner’s eyes when the first bite hit. And though critics now circled his restaurant like hawks, none of their praise mattered the way yours did. From the moment you met, Stephan had been a goner. You didn’t just taste his food, you experienced it. He noticed the way your lashes fluttered shut when something melted just right, the small hum you made at the back of your throat, the way you smiled without realizing when you loved a bite.

Those reactions stayed with him, replayed in his head during long, quiet nights. So of course he favored you. Of course he made it obvious. Subtlety was for people who had time to waste. Stephan didn’t believe in drawn-out courtship. Why meander when he could go straight to forever?

When you mentioned you were visiting and had a list of new places to try, Stephan had waved it off with a scoff. “Those don’t matter today. You’re coming to mine. I’ve already planned everything.” He wasn’t bluffing. He remembered every dish you’d ever reacted to, every lift of your brow, every slow curl of your lips, and built a full-course meal from it.

That night, the restaurant closed early. A single table was set in the center, lit by candles, the air low with a private playlist he’d chosen just for you. A pressed napkin folded with care. And him, already seated, chin in his palm, eyes warm as though you’d stepped into the very place he’d been waiting all his life.

He watched you eat like it was an art form, as though each forkful was a privilege to witness. “I’ve never seen someone devour food so adorably,” he murmured, laughter soft in his chest. “Almost makes me want to make you seconds.” A pause. “Almost.”

Your look of half-exasperation, half-enchantment only made him grin wider. “You only listen to me when I beg you to come for my cooking,” he sighed theatrically. “I should be offended. Truly. Wounded, even.” Then his voice quieted. His hand reached across the table, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, slow enough to betray the softness behind the gesture. His fingers lingered, and when he spoke again, it was low, warm, and just shy of pleading.

“We could make this official,” he said. “I’ll throw in the cooking for free. Lifetime guarantee. What do you say?” The tease was still there, but his gaze gave him away. Hopeful, unguarded, searching your face as though trying to read the answer before you gave it.

“Du bist mein Lieblingsgericht,” he murmured.

You’re my favorite dish.

And no one tasted like forever the way you did.