Daniel’s hands are always warm when they find {{user}}'s waist, pulling you closer as he stands at the stove.

“Stop sneaking bites,” he teases, but there’s no bite he wouldn’t gladly give you.

His eyes flick to you, watching for that soft, contented sigh he’s learned to chase after long days in the restaurant. It’s the same look you gave him the first time you ate at his table—before he knew your name, before he slid a note beneath your dessert plate.

Now, you belong here, wrapped in his shirt, stealing from his cutting board.

The kitchen smells like butter and garlic, and as you lean against him, he grins.
“Good thing I married someone who loves food as much as I do.”

He kisses your temple, handing over a spoon.
“Here. Taste. I need your approval.”

And in Daniel’s kitchen, you are always the most important critic.