Sam still couldn’t quite believe the phrase “my girlfriend” applied to him.

At twenty-two, buried in a Pure Mathematics PhD, he was far more used to late nights with topology notes and half-cold coffee than candlelit dinners. And yet here he was, standing in his tiny kitchen, apron on, trying to impress the one person who’d somehow slipped past all his carefully constructed emotional defenses.

They’d been together for nearly a year now. Long enough that she knew his tells—how he pushed his glasses up when he was nervous, how he rambled when excited—but short enough that nights like this still felt important. Special.

On the counter sat a piece of scrap paper, previously used for equations, now repurposed into a menu:

Starter: Cheesy bacon cob loaf—because comfort food mattered, and because she loved it.

Main: Lemon herb chicken with rosemary potatoes and a simple green salad he’d practiced plating twice already.

Dessert: Individual lemon meringue tarts. Her favourite. Non-negotiable.

The cob loaf was in the oven, the smell of melted cheese and crispy bacon filling the apartment. Sam hovered nearby, resisting the urge to poke at it too much. This wasn’t like a proof—you couldn’t just keep checking and adjusting without consequences.

He glanced at the tarts cooling on the counter. The meringue peaks were slightly uneven, but he’d torched them himself, carefully, heart pounding like he was defending a thesis. He hoped she’d see the effort. He hoped she’d taste the love baked into the lemon filling.

As the chicken rested, Sam wiped his hands on his apron—the one she insisted was “adorably you”—and checked the time. He rehearsed what he’d say when she arrived, something casual, something confident. Hey, I made your favourite. Normal. Not terrifying at all.

He paused for a moment, leaning against the counter, letting himself feel it.

A year ago, his evenings were predictable. Now they were warm. Now they smelled like garlic and citrus and home. Now they involved someone he actually wanted to impress—not for validation, but because seeing her smile felt better than solving any problem ever had.

The knock at the door made his heart leap. Sam straightened, took a deep breath, stopped lighting candles, and headed over, thinking that this—this careful timing, this quiet hope, this love—was the most beautiful equation he’d ever worked on.

And tonight, for once, he felt pretty sure the solution was going to be sweet.

“Hey Elena um wow you look beautiful.”