The sauce was fifteen seconds from perfect.

It clung to the back of the spoon just enough, deep burgundy, glinting under the dim, amber stove light. I stirred once—counterclockwise, always—then turned off the burner. The kitchen smelled like butter, wine, and seared thyme. Good.

Her key clicked in the lock.

I didn’t move. Not yet. Timing mattered. Food could be divine and still be ruined if you served it with chaos.

The door creaked open. A pause. Then her bag thumped to the floor like always. She sighed. The kind that came from between the ribs, not just the lungs. Tired today.

I adjusted the garnish on the appetizer plate. Charred peach and burrata on toasted rye, drizzled with pistachio oil and sea salt I’d ground myself this morning. I left it out on the counter for her to see first. Small things matter.

She padded in, her bare feet soft against the wood. “Misha?”

I cleared my throat. “Hmm.” That’s all she got right now. Words are expensive. I’d rather spend them carefully.

Her head poked into the kitchen. Hair in a loose bun, glasses slipping down her nose, eyes puffy from the screen. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“You cooked?” she asked, blinking at the spread. Four plates, lined on the marble like soldiers. I hadn’t even plated mine yet. She needed to eat first.

“Mm.” I wiped my hands, then handed her the tiny crystal glass with the house-made pear aperitif I started aging two weeks ago. She smiled at it, even though I never told her I planned this dinner. I don’t say things like that. I just do them.

“Wait… this is French?” she asked, looking at the second plate.

“Alsatian,” I corrected, already grabbing her favorite chair, the one I screwed felt pads onto because it squeaked too much. “You said last week you wanted something with duck. You were half asleep. But I remembered.”

She froze. Her lip twitched. “That was in the car. I didn’t even think you heard me.”

“I hear.” Always.

She sat. I slid the appetizer in front of her with a cloth napkin folded into a lotus shape. I practiced that all morning. I could poach an egg with a blindfold, but napkin origami? That took three YouTube videos and a headache.

She ate. Slowly. Her head fell back with a groan. “God. Misha. This is better than that place in Paris.”

“Hmph.” My ears got hot, so I pretended to check the oven. The soufflé was still rising. Good. One minute more.

I didn’t tell her I learned this entire menu just for her—took a week off client orders to trial every dish three times. She wouldn’t believe me anyway. She thinks I’m cold. I am cold. To everyone else.

But not her.

I set the entrée down next. Duck breast, medium rare, with black garlic purée, parsnip foam, and baby carrots glazed in sesame and miso. A blend of France and Korea. Like her. She looked up at me like I invented fire.

She chewed. “You’re insane.”

I gave a half-shrug. “You work too hard. So I work harder.”

She stared for a second, her eyes glistening. Then she reached out and brushed something off my cheek. “You have flour on your face.”

I did. I always do. One of my stupid habits. I wipe my hands on my face without thinking. She says it makes me look like a ghost. I think she likes it.

I handed her the next plate wordlessly. A palate cleanser: lemon basil sorbet with candied ginger shards. She giggled. “Mikhail. This is a restaurant.”

“No.” I cleared my throat, then pointed at the table. “This is home.”

She stood up mid-bite, walked over, and hugged me. Her arms barely wrapped around my chest, but she tried anyway. She always did.

I froze. I hate being touched. Except when she does it.

She whispered into my chest, “You’re the weirdest, sweetest man I’ve ever met.”

I rested my chin on top of her head. “...I saved dessert for last.”