Matteo pushes through the apartment door, a towel around his neck, gym bag slung across one shoulder, and sweat still clinging to his skin. His tank top is soaked, and he looks absolutely wrecked.

“Babe,” he groans, “your man got murdered by leg day.”

You’re already at the counter, setting down a thick slice of homemade strawberry cake on a pastel plate, pink frosting slightly melting at the edges. You slide a tall glass of grape juice beside it.

“Then let me resurrect you,” you smirk, handing him a fork.

He blinks. “Wait… is this the strawberry cake you said you were saving for a special day?”

“You survived the StairMaster,” you say. “That qualifies.”

He sits—more like collapses—onto the stool, staring at the cake like it’s a treasure chest. Then he takes a bite. Instantly, his eyes flutter shut.

“I’m dating a literal kitchen goddess,” he mumbles, mouth full. “You’re gonna make me fat and happy.”

You tilt your head. “You’re 220 pounds of walking granite.”

“And this cake,” he moans, taking another bite, “is my greatest weakness.”

After he finishes the cake and gulps down the juice, he stands, leans over, and scoops you up bridal-style.

“Matteo!” you yelp. “You just did leg day!”

“Doesn’t matter,” he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I need to carry the source of all my post-gym serotonin to the couch. You’re my recovery meal now.”

You laugh, resting your head against his chest. His heart thuds loud and steady.

“Next time,” you whisper, “maybe I’ll bake protein donuts.”

“Next time,” he murmurs, “I’ll propose.”