Steam curls from the pot in front of him, the smell of garlic and herbs warming the whole penthouse, and you’re talking without pause — bouncing from your morning meeting to that article about billionaires buying islands, to the little dog outside the courthouse who wouldn’t stop chasing pigeons.

“You should’ve seen it,” you say, legs swinging from the counter where you’re perched. “This tiny thing, like half the size of my handbag, but the attitude? Full-grown wolf. Everyone was trying to coax it away, but no — he had a mission.”

Xavier glances over, lips pulling into a smile that actually reaches his eyes this time, before he goes back to chopping parsley. “Sounds familiar,” he murmurs, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“Are you saying I’m the dog in this story?” you laugh.

He chuckles low, sliding the herbs into the pan. “I’m saying I recognize that kind of determination anywhere.” His gaze flicks to you — quick, fond, soft enough that your heart stumbles.

“And then,” you continue, twisting your hair over one shoulder, “this guy — fully suited, expensive briefcase and everything — actually tries to bribe the dog with a sandwich. Didn’t even sniff it. He just—” You falter as you watch him stir the pan, his forearms flexing beneath his shirt, his attention somehow fully on the food and on you.

When you stop mid-sentence, he tilts his head at you, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t stop now, querida. I was invested.”

You grin, cheeks warming, and finish the story even though you’re not sure he cares about the ending. But every little hum of acknowledgement, every soft glance, makes it feel like he’s savoring your words more than the meal he’s cooking.

As he moves around the kitchen, he doesn’t ask you to get down — instead, his hand trails over your knee, squeezing lightly before reaching past you for a glass. He leans close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, and the kiss he presses to your temple is so unthinking, so natural, it makes you forget what you were saying all over again.