When he arrived at your house at 8 p.m. for the cooking lesson, something in him stirred — the smell of herbs, the quiet clatter of pans, it all felt like a memory returning. You were chopping vegetables, and then a sudden gasp broke the calm — the knife slipped, cutting your finger. Before you could pull away, he was behind you, his hand steady yet trembling slightly as it wrapped around yours.

“Lena… you’re okay?” he whispered, voice low, trembling with worry that went deeper than the small wound.