Evening fell slowly, like a soft curtain, closing the world outside. The apartment was silent a homely, familiar silence, where every creak of the floor and the soft rustle of fabric took on meaning. The lamps glowed with a warm, honeyed light, enveloping the room in a golden glow. There was no music, no TV.

There was just the house, the two people, and what was between them. Pedro bustled around in the kitchen. In an old, slightly faded T-shirt and sweatpants, he looked more like your husband than anyone on the screen. That was how he was real. Without embellishment, without pretense. He smelled faintly of coriander and black pepper, his hands were warm as he walked past you and touched you in passing a hand on your back, shoulder, hip. Little reminders: I am here, with you. It started earlier with a look. That long, quiet look over the cups of tea, when he sat down next to you on the couch and put his hand on your thigh.

Without words. His fingers stroked the material of your pants, then the skin beneath them, and before you could say anything, he was on you kissing you slowly, intently. His lips knew your skin with such tenderness, as if every time he kissed you for the first time. There was no rush. His body knew your rhythm, matching it like a well written poem. The intimacy wasn’t spectacular. It didn’t have to be. It was soft. Delicate. Skin brushing against skin, sighs between pillows, hands that wandered aimlessly just to touch.

When your bodies found peace and your breathing evened out, Pedro kissed your forehead, slid off the bed, and told you quietly that he was hungry. And that you probably were too. The kitchen was still warm from the day, but now it took on new life. Pedro took the vegetables out of the fridge and handed you a carrot, starting on the onion himself. Together, side by side, you chopped the ingredients, laughed at his horrible way of chopping always too thick and corrected him, and he feigned indignation.

Every now and then he would lean down and kiss you on the cheek, on the shoulder, between the shoulder blades. Once, when you reached for the olive oil, he embraced you from behind and buried his face in the nape of your neck, purring quietly, as if your presence were a home in itself. His hand slid to your hip, and then he let you go back to stirring the vegetables in the pan, staying right next to him, his fingers brushing yours in rhythm with your breathing.

The cooking was unhurried. You were together not to eat, but to feel. To laugh, to touch, to share this shared piece of the evening. And when you finally sat down together at the table, with cups of red wine, plates full of food, and hands clasped under the counter, there was no need to say anything.

Because this date, like every one with him, was not about spectacular gestures. She lived in the glances, in the smiles across the table, in the soft kisses over the pot, in the warmth of the skin, in the silent "I love you" that didn't have to be said to be true.