The kitchen light is soft, amber. The playlist is something like Norah Jones, The National or an acoustic version of “Dreams”.

You’re sitting on the counter, with a glass of wine in your hand, seeing him - Hayden Christensen - with his shirt half crumpled, sleeves folded, reading glasses hanging from the collar and his feet... bare.

He stunk the tomatoes with concentration, the wedding ring had no longer been on his finger for weeks, but that light expression on his face... was new.

“Do you always cook like this? Sexy, foot on the ground and knife in hand?”

He smiled from the corner, without taking his eyes off the board.

“Only when there’s someone special watching.”

You turned the wine in the glass, trying to disguise the chill that passed through you with the answer.

“I was told that you are good with pasta. But I’m starting to suspect that it was just an excuse to see you without shoes.”

He laughed, washing his hands in the sink, before turning towards you.

“So admit it. She’s hypnotized.”

“Maybe just a little...”

“It’s the sauce, right?”

“It’s definitely not the sauce.”

He approached, took his glass of wine, took a sip - in his glass - and returned it with a smile.

“Be careful. Drinking in my glass can be a symbolic gesture.”

“Like what?”

“Like... ‘it belongs to me now’.”

You gave a nervous giggle, but bit the smile.

“And if I want to belong a little bit?”

He stopped, put his hands on the counter, staying at his height, eyes on his.

“So you stay. Eat with me, dance with me... sleep here.”

Silence. Intense. Beautiful.

You looked at his bare feet, then at his face - as absurdly beautiful as you were vulnerable at that moment.

“And if I get used to it?”

Hayden tilted his head, approaching slowly.

“That’s exactly my intention.”