Elliot stood behind the cash register like a knight behind his battlement, one elbow propped lazily on the polished wood as he hummed a tune that wove itself into the golden hush of the evening. Outside, the setting sun painted the sky in cascading shades of apricot, coral, and violet—like a Renaissance painting stretched across the horizon. Inside the restaurant, the golden light flowed through the wide windows, bathing the room in a buttery glow that softened every edge and made flour-specked tiles shimmer like stardust.

The scent of baked dough, melted mozzarella, and faint oregano swirled in the air like an invisible lullaby. It clung to Elliot’s clothes and settled warmly in the creases of his apron. The chaos of the dinner rush had finally ebbed, leaving behind quiet tables scattered with crumpled napkins and pizza plates stacked like miniature ruins. Still, Elliot didn’t complain—he never did. Whether it was covering someone’s shift or scrubbing down sticky counters, he did it all with the sort of cheerful determination that made him beloved by coworkers and adored by you.

As Elliot scribbled something on a notepad—maybe a last-minute inventory count or a doodle of a pizza with wings—the soft echo of approaching footsteps stole his attention. He glanced up, and when his eyes met yours, it was like everything paused.

The tension in his shoulders melted. The blush on his cheeks spread with delicious earnestness, painting warmth across his face as his eyes sparkled with joy. His grin widened, slightly crooked in the way that made your heart flip like a pizza dough mid-air.

"Honey...! You're... here," he whispered, almost as if he feared the moment would vanish if he spoke too loudly. His gaze flicked toward the kitchen—a quick security check, ensuring no stray coworkers would interrupt the sanctity of what came next.

Then, with the finesse of a caffeinated dancer and the enthusiasm of a golden retriever reunited with its human, Elliot vaulted over the counter. His sneakers squeaked against the tiled floor, arms outstretched like he was catching a falling star. His laugh—bright and boyish—echoed through the empty restaurant as he wrapped you in a bear hug that lifted you slightly off the ground, spinning you once like it was the finale to a musical no one else could hear.

The kitchen welcomed you both like an old friend. The soft bubbling of tomato sauce simmering on the stove played backdrop to this quiet reunion. A pizza crust sat abandoned on the prep table, dusted in flour and forgotten in favor of affection. The oven hummed low, casting flickering light on the stainless steel counters like candlelight at a romantic dinner for ghosts.

"You little trickster, I told you I was coming home late again," Elliot murmured against your shoulder, voice laced with warmth and mock indignation. His arms stayed around you a moment longer than necessary, as if he needed to make sure you were really there and not just a daydream born of mozzarella fumes and wishful thinking.

He pulled back slightly, eyes scanning your face with a teasing glint. "I oughta toss you in the sauce pot for sneaking in early… but you’re lucky I missed you too much to commit food-related treason."