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aleksatia · 1 day ago

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🏍Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Sylus.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

All parts are written. Unreleased ones are in edits — dropping any day now.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Obsessive love, Verbal sparring, Emotional manipulation, Power imbalance (narratively examined), High sensual tension, Knife imagery, Intimacy (consensual, intense), Jealousy / possessiveness, Codependency themes.

Pairing: Sylus x ex-wife!you Genre: Sharp-edged seduction, culinary metaphors and emotional hunger. Power play, slow unraveling, lust laced with history. Lovers to wreckage to something still burning. Summary: You came for a blind date with a private chef. You got Sylus — the man who once built you a panic room and still remembers your spice preferences by scent. In a kitchen simmering with heat, memory, and unresolved desire, the knives aren’t the only things that cut. What starts with dinner ends in something far messier — a taste of the past that still knows how to ruin you sweetly. Word Count: 5.3K 😱

You didn’t come here for romance.

You came because a targeted ad caught you scrolling at 2AM with a glass of cheap wine in one hand and existential dread in the other. Because the food in the photos looked edible and the men in the photos looked even better.

You came because you were starving. Not just for a decent meal — though God knew your fridge contained exactly one expired yogurt and half a lime — but for the kind of attention that didn’t arrive via notifications or come with a tax form.

The invite said blind date with a private chef. Curated flavors. Curated ambiance. Curated man. It sounded ridiculous.

You clicked anyway.

Filled out the form without thinking — somewhere between insomnia and impulse. Ticked the “no dietary restrictions” box, ignored the optional personality quiz, chose a time slot like you were booking a facial.

And now here you were.

You arrived in a dress you hadn’t worn in a year — the one that whispered sin with every breath, that laced too tightly at the waist but made silence a weapon. Your heels were sharp. So were you.

The kitchen looked like it belonged in a Bond villain’s pied-à-terre. All obsidian marble and gold fixtures, veined stone that caught light like a lover’s gaze. One bottle of wine. Open. Breathing.

The thyme was already simmering. So was the question in your throat.

Who the hell was already here?

You didn’t have time to knock — only breathe — before the voice slipped under your skin like a memory.

“Well,” it said, low, warm, amused. “They said come hungry, but I didn’t think you’d show up starving.”

You turned. And there he was.

Sylus.

Of course he was wearing black. Of course the sleeves were rolled. The apron was leather — unnecessary, indulgent, unmistakably him. The knife in his hand glinted, but he wasn’t holding it like a threat. Not yet.

He looked at you like he always did — like he was already inside the next three things you were about to say.

“New shoes?” he asked. “Sound expensive. You finally start taking my advice or just ran out of bad ones?”

Your mouth twitched. You refused to smile.

“I thought they’d match the occasion,” you said coolly. “Should I be flattered or concerned you’ve taken up cosplay as a housewife’s fantasy?”

He chuckled — low, velvet-wrapped steel.

“Careful, kitten,” he said, letting the word linger, soft and edged. “You’re talking to the man holding the knife.”

You moved closer, not because you wanted to, but because your body still remembered what it felt like to be near him. Like standing too close to lightning and pretending the static in your lungs was just the weather.

“I was told there’d be a private chef,” you said, eyeing the cutting board, the herbs, the glint of something rich and red in a copper pan. “Not the King of N109 Zone slumming it in an apron. Just tell me—am I here to eat, or to be served?”

He grinned. Slow. Viciously fond.

“Sweetie, you’re not dinner. You’re dessert. Custom-made. One of one. And I have a very... private sweet tooth”

You hated how easily he said things like that. You hated that part of you still wanted to believe he meant it.

Sylus turned back to the stove like he hadn’t just punched through three layers of self-defense with a compliment.

“Hungry?” he asked, without looking.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He already knew.

The apron was black linen, embroidered discreetly in a thread so dark it only caught the light when he moved — which he did now, slowly, like he had all the time in the world and none of it belonged to you.

He stepped behind you without a sound, and still, your breath caught like it always did around him — on that invisible hook just beneath your ribs.

“Arms up,” Sylus murmured, voice just behind your ear.

You didn’t move.

“Unless you’d rather get that dress dirty,” he added, fingers already brushing your waist. “Though… I’ve never minded you messy.”

You rolled your eyes — slowly, deliberately — but raised your arms. The fabric slipped over your head like something ceremonial. His hands lingered. Just long enough to feel the heat of him. Just long enough to remind you that you used to belong to this touch.

He tied the knot at the back like it was a game of patience. Like he was daring you to shiver.

“You still stretch time like it matters most in the smallest moments,” you said, forcing your voice steady. “Still insufferably slow.”

He leaned in, not quite touching. His breath traced the nape of your neck.

“I find haste… unsatisfying,” Sylus said, his voice low and deliberate. “You rush only when you have something to fear. Do you?”

You turned your head just slightly, just enough to let him see the cut of your smirk.

“I came here for dinner, not for psychological foreplay.”

“Kitten,” he said, almost sweet, “in our case, I’ve never been able to tell the difference.”

You didn’t answer. You needed to look at something that wasn’t him. Needed a moment to breathe through the heat still clinging to your skin. Your gaze drifted — to the counters, the low golden light, the wine, the perfectly staged mise en place.

And then you saw it.

The cutting board in front of you held a single, glistening eggplant — deep purple, swollen, glossy like forbidden fruit. Obscene in its simplicity. Ridiculous. Erotic.

Absolutely on purpose.

“You’re kidding,” you said. “What is this, some kind of culinary metaphor?”

“Only if you’re thinking like a poet,” he said. “I prefer precision. We’re making kara-kara masala. Northern blend. Stracciatella to finish.”

You blinked.

“Stracciatella. With masala.”

He shrugged — just a twitch of shoulders behind you.

“Fusion is in fashion.”

“And here I thought mass murder was your aesthetic.”

“Multifaceted,” he said, plucking a sprig of burnt orange coriander from a tray. “You never liked simple men.”

Your hand started to move toward the eggplant — slowly, half on instinct.

“Go on,” he said, not looking up. “Take it in both hands. Start working it gently. The size might feel... familiar.”

You froze mid-reach. One eyebrow lifted, sharp and unimpressed.

He smirked — just a flicker.

You picked it up anyway. Deliberately. Fingers curling around the smooth, cool skin. You started to massage it with a bit too much force, more intent than technique — not because you didn’t know better, but because you wanted him to notice.

And he did.

His gaze drifted sideways, jaw tightening just slightly.

“Careful… you keep handling it like that, and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”

You didn’t look at him — just kept working the eggplant, hands slow but deliberate, your fingers tightening ever so slightly.

“Maybe I should’ve practiced on something tougher. Something with... less give. Like your ego. Or whatever alloy you keep your balls in.”

He laughed. Quiet, deep, genuine. The kind of laugh that started in his chest and slid under your skin.

A second later, you felt him behind you — his presence more physical than his touch. You barely registered the space between your bodies closing before his voice curved warm at your neck.

“Here,” he murmured. “Let me show you how to handle it.”

Then — his hands.

Warm. Large. Wrapping around yours, commanding without pressure. His thumbs settled just behind your knuckles, guiding your rhythm with that maddening patience he wore like cologne.

The eggplant turned beneath your fingers like silk on wet marble.

“You want to soften it, not break it,” he whispered, lips almost against your ear. “Press. Rotate. Coax.”

Your throat went dry.

“I’m not making love to it, Sylus.”

“Pity,” he said. “You’re very good with your hands.”

You could feel your pulse in your teeth.

He adjusted your grip again, moving your palms against the vegetable with maddening care.

“See?” he murmured. “It responds better when you take your time.”

You inhaled. Regret. Lust. Something older than both.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“I prefer irresistible.”

He let go just then, too suddenly, and you almost swayed without the brace of him.

But you didn’t turn. Not yet.

Not while your hands still remembered the weight of his.

Behind you, the sound of a flame ticking higher. A pan shifting. Steel over heat. You exhaled through your nose, slowly — and realized you’d been holding that breath since he touched you.

“Still so still,” he murmured behind you. Not mocking. Not quite. “I used to love how you froze when you didn’t know what you wanted more — to kiss me or slap me.”

You turned now. Not quickly — like a tide reversing.

He was slicing the chili. Long, delicate strokes. The knife moved like part of him — silent, certain. His forearms flexed under the rolled sleeves. There was oil on his thumb, catching the low light.

“I always knew what I wanted,” you said. “I just didn’t always want you knowing it.”

He looked up. That look — that look — like he was reading the margins of your thoughts.

“Sweetie,” he said, and the word landed warm and sharp, “I knew anyway.”

He moved toward you again, casual in a way that felt staged. Like choreography he’d written hours ago. Like this scene had already happened in his head.

You didn’t back away. But your pulse did something interesting in your throat.

He held the half-sliced pepper between two fingers and raised it.

“Bite,” he said.

You arched a brow.

“Do I look like I take orders in the kitchen?”

He smiled — slow, indulgent, the way you imagine sinners smile just before the gates close.

“No,” he said. “You look like someone who bites first, regrets later.”

You took it anyway. Just the tip. Just enough to feel the heat bloom.

Sharp. Clean. Electric. Like a warning. Like him.

You blinked against the rush, tongue burning. He watched every flicker of expression on your face like it was a language only he could speak.

“I missed that look,” he said softly.

“What look?”

“The one right before you pretend it didn’t affect you.”

You stepped around him this time, reaching for the wooden pestle. The crushed spices waited — golden, coarse, slightly smoking.

He didn’t stop you. Just turned with you, keeping close, orbiting.

“You really planned this,” you said, voice low now. Less sharp. More dangerous. “This isn’t some booking fluke.”

He shrugged.

“I don’t believe in accidents.”

You pressed the pestle down — slowly. The crunch of coriander and clove under your weight sounded too much like breaking something delicate.

“So why?” you asked. Quiet. Not for drama. Just because you finally had space for the question.

Why here. Why now. Why this.

He didn’t answer. Not yet. Just reached forward — and covered your hand again.

Guided the pressure. Slower. Deeper.

“Because,” he said at last, “I missed watching your hands destroy beautiful things.”

You didn’t pull your hand away. Not at first.

The pestle moved in slow circles under both your palms, spices groaning softly beneath the weight. The smell rose hotter now — deeper, more bitter — cumin surrendering to pressure, coriander cracking, cardamom bleeding out into air that was already too full of memory.

His hands didn’t press. They suggested. But that was always worse.

You turned your wrist, just enough to break the rhythm, just enough to make it yours again. And then you pulled your fingers from under his — deliberately — like slipping silk through a closing door.

“You’re still doing it,” you said, not looking at him.

A pause. Then, lightly — amused, unhurried: “Doing what, kitten?”

You shook your head, pressing down on the mixture harder than you needed to. The pestle slipped slightly; cumin dust flared.

“Controlling things. Guiding. Correcting. Even now. Even with… this.”

A gesture at the bowl, the kitchen, the heat-laced air. At both of you.

Sylus leaned one hip against the marble, arms loose, one finger idly tracing the rim of a copper spice tin.

“I wouldn’t call it control,” he said. “I’d call it… insurance.”

You laughed once — dry.

“Against what?”

“Against disaster,” he said. “Which, in your case, starts with putting cinnamon in curry.”

You turned, this time fully. Crossed your arms, the pestle still warm in your fingers.

“That was once.”

“And your risotto never forgave you.”

“You never let me try again.”

He looked at you. Not sharply. Just… fully. Like he was trying to see something under the words.

“You never asked.”

Silence swelled. Heavy. Smoky.

Then he pushed off the counter and moved back to the stove. The oil was shimmering now in the pan — time for the spices. He tilted the bowl toward you, nodding.

“You pour,” he said. “You’ve earned that much trust.”

You did. Slowly. Watching the crushed spices hit the oil like secrets — sudden, loud, blooming with heat and color.

The scent rose immediately — rich, toasted, complex. A taste of something you didn’t yet understand.

“You always did this,” you said softly, almost without meaning to. “Knew exactly where I’d trip. And stepped in before I even noticed the floor shifting.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stirred, slow and precise, the spoon carving lazy circles in gold and flame.

Then, not looking at you: “You think I was trying to control you.”

Wry smile. The kind that hurt more than it should’ve.

“I was trying to be the steady thing. So you'd never have to wonder if someone had your back.”

You didn’t expect that.

Didn’t expect the way it sat inside your chest — bitter, like fenugreek. Bright, like ginger. Sharp enough to make you swallow twice.

He turned to face you again, this time holding a spoon toward your mouth — the first taste. A small one. The kind meant to test, not feed.

You met his eyes. Then leaned in.

The flavor hit the back of your throat like memory — rich, warm, almost sweet. And then… that creeping burn. Slow. Claiming.

You held it a second too long before swallowing.

He tasted after you, the way he always did — like he wanted to know exactly what touched your mouth. Then said, lightly:

“It needs more acid.”

You tilted your head.

“So did we.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp — it was soft. A stillness you didn’t quite trust.

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you, eyes unreadable in that way that always made you furious. The way he could feel everything and still reveal nothing.

“I gave you everything,” he said quietly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just… honest.

You nodded. Once.

“You did.”

He turned away then — not to leave, just to move. To have something to do with his hands. He reached for the mortar again, brushing spice dust from its rim with unnecessary care.

“I would’ve torn the world apart for you,” he said. “You know that.”

And god, you did. That was the problem.

You stepped forward, but didn’t close the space. Just enough to feel the warmth of the stove between you.

“You always gave me the world, Sylus. But sometimes I needed you to give me something smaller.”

He looked over. Brows slightly drawn.

“Smaller?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Like… a Tuesday. A morning. An hour when you weren’t a god, or a ghost, or halfway to a war.”

His eyes darkened — not angry. Just quiet.

“And you think a vineyard, a moonlit opera, a private island… that was me running away?”

“It was love. I know that. But sometimes it felt like you loved me the way men love symbols — not people.”

You let out a breath, slow. Bitter at the edges.

“I didn’t need a palace and a crown. I just needed someone who’d sit with me on the floor.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

Only said, barely above the hum of the stove:

“I didn’t think you'd stay for the floor.”

You met his eyes again.

“I would’ve,” you whispered. “If you'd ever joined me there.”

He turned away without a word, grabbed a knife — something heavier than before — and dropped two ripe mangoes onto the cutting board with a dull, final thud.

“Slice them,” he said, not looking at you. “Thin. Clean. No waste.”

You stared at his back.

He didn’t stop moving. “Or is that too luxurious a task for someone trying to live simply?”

You stepped forward, grabbed the smaller blade — your fingers curling around the handle tighter than necessary. The mango skin was soft, too yielding, and the first cut slipped slightly.

Behind you, he began chopping green chili with mechanical force. Each strike of the knife hit the board like punctuation marks in a fight he hadn’t yet started.

At first, you thought it was your words that hit a nerve — the dig about extravagance, the suggestion that his love had always been too much.

But no. This wasn’t pride. This was something quieter. Sharper. It wasn’t what you’d said that bothered him.

It was that you were here… but not for him.

You kept your eyes on the fruit, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

“You’re jealous,” you said before you could stop yourself. “That I agreed to a blind date.”

His knife didn’t pause. “I’m pissed you thought I wouldn’t know.”

You laughed — one sharp breath through your nose. “Of course you knew. You always know. The algorithm, the wine, the fake-ass bio with ‘seasonal melancholy’ in the personality field. What was it this time — surveillance drones? A wiretap? My fucking grocery receipts?”

“I didn’t need to spy,” he snapped. “You’re not subtle, kitten.”

You spun to face him, knife in hand, juice on your wrist.

“No. I’m not. Not anymore. I left you. A year ago. And I’m still cutting fruit under your shadow.”

He stared at you. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. You pressed.

“That’s what you want, right? Doesn’t matter where I go or who I let in. You’ll always be there. Uninvited. Unavoidable.”

“I don’t give a damn who you let in,” he said, finally, voice low and cold. “But I care what you let close. I care what lives near my heart. And that’s still you. Whether you like it or not.”

Your knife slipped.

A gasp caught in your throat — not from pain, but from the sting. Quick. Bright. A thin line of red welled up along the pad of your finger.

Before you could pull back, he was already there. He didn’t hesitate. He took your wrist like it belonged to him — like it always had — and brought your hand to his mouth.

You didn’t breathe.

He closed his lips around your fingertip and sucked, slow and deliberate. His eyes never left yours.

The kitchen noise faded. Even the burning oil went quiet. You could feel the press of his tongue, the warmth of his mouth, the soft scrape of his teeth just beneath restraint.

When he let go, your finger was clean. His mouth wasn’t.

Still watching you, he dragged the back of his wrist across his lower lip, catching a smear of blood and mango juice.

“You’re still bleeding,” he said.

“Barely.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“I always preferred you this way,” he murmured. “Slightly bruised. Still standing.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. He looked at you like you were a problem he couldn’t stop solving.

Your voice came low, tight.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“What, kitten?” He tilted his head. “Caring?”

“Following. Knowing. Controlling.” You threw the knife down on the board. It clanged.

He didn’t flinch. “You think I follow you? You think I watch you like some bored king with a telescope? No. I remember you. That’s worse.”

You swallowed. The silence between you thickened. Then he spoke again — softer this time, but not gentler.

“I rebuilt a vineyard because you smiled at a bottle once. I rerouted cargo ships to get you your favorite fucking soap. I learned your cycle before you tracked it yourself.”

His voice cracked, just a little.

“You think I did all that because I wanted control?”

You didn’t answer.

“I did it,” he said, almost quietly, “because when you smiled — really smiled — it felt like the world shut the fuck up for a second.”

You looked away. Because the worst part was, you remembered those seconds. Too clearly.

He turned back to the stove, threw in the chilies. The oil hissed like it took offense.

“I learned how to breathe around your moods,” he said, almost conversational. “Knew when you were quiet because you were thinking, and when you were quiet because I fucked up. I memorized the way your voice changed when you were lying — not to me, to yourself.”

His hand moved with clean precision, scraping the pan, adding turmeric and something red and earthy.

“I built an entire panic room underneath our bedroom in case someone ever came for you in your sleep. There’s a pulse sensor in the floors, kitten. I tracked your nightmares.”

You gripped the edge of the counter.

He glanced over his shoulder, knife flashing in his hand.

“You think I didn’t know you hated the spotlight? That’s why I stopped inviting you to those parties. Not because I wanted you hidden. Because I wanted you comfortable.”

The knife came down. Fast. Rhythmic. Final.

“So if all that wasn’t enough,” he said, voice low now, “if knowing your scent from a room away, if burning half the galaxy to keep your name out of a single report — wasn’t enough—”

He turned. Eyes sharp. Shoulders squared.

“Then the only thing that makes sense is this — you never loved me.”

Your throat locked.

“What?” you whispered.

His face was unreadable. Not blank — closed.

“That’s the only explanation that fits.” He shrugged. “You loved me, I gave everything, and you still left. So either I was never enough… or you never did.”

Your lips parted. No sound came out at first. Then:

“Sylus, no…” A breath. “You’re wrong.”

He didn’t blink.

“You think I didn’t love you because I didn’t build you a panic room?” you asked softly, almost laughing from the sheer ache of it. “I didn’t have warships or vineyards, Sylus. I had quiet.”

He said nothing.

“I used to go into your closet when you were gone,” you said. “Because it smelled like you. I organized your shirts by the days you wore them most — not by color, by habit.”

You stepped forward. Still soft. Still shaking.

“I kept the bathroom stocked with the toothpaste you liked even though I hated it. I had your old watch cleaned when you forgot it in the study. I rewired the coffee machine after it shorted because I knew you’d never replace it — and I didn’t want you to start your day annoyed. And I adjusted the lighting presets in the bedroom when you were gone — so it wouldn’t be too harsh when you came back late.”

He was still. Completely.

You exhaled, long and thin.

“I didn’t have grand gestures. But I was always there. Folding myself in between your thunder. Whispering in the wake of your fireworks.”

Your voice cracked, barely.

“But your love was so big, so loud, so everything… I started to feel like mine didn’t matter. Like anything I gave would just vanish under the weight of you. Like I wasn’t enough to be seen next to what you were offering.”

A long silence.

And then he moved.

Not walked. Moved. Like gravity finally snapped.

He crossed the space between you in two strides and grabbed your face in both hands, not roughly — but with so much force it felt like claiming. He kissed you — no, devoured you. Mouth to mouth, heat to heat, as if the only way he could convince you mattered was to crush that thought out of your body.

His hands were everywhere and nowhere — in your hair, on your waist, gripping your jaw like you were the first real thing he’d touched in months. And he kissed you like he didn’t care about dinner, or timing, or sense.

He kissed you like apology, like memory, like prayer.

When he finally pulled back — barely — his voice was raw against your mouth.

“Don’t you ever say you weren’t enough.”

Your fingers dug into his shirt.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t. I said I forgot how to believe I was.”

He rested his forehead against yours. Breathing hard.

“Then let me remind you.”

And he kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, like he wasn’t just claiming your mouth, but giving you back every piece of yourself he ever touched.

His kiss didn’t end — it just shifted. Became something else. Slower, darker, hungrier. His fingers slid down your spine, then wrapped around the back of your thigh with unapologetic intent. You felt the moment his hand hit the edge of your garter — the tension in his grip told you he hadn’t expected it.

He broke the kiss. Just barely.

His voice was rough silk.

“You wear lace.” A pause. “That’s not confidence. That’s theater.”

You didn’t blink. Just smirked.

“You should worry if I came without anything under the dress,” you murmured. “Like that time in the restaurant. Third floor. Behind the velvet curtain.”

His nostrils flared. That single second of stillness was the only warning you got before he grabbed your hips and lifted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

The marble was cold under your thighs. His palms weren’t.

He stepped between your knees, eyes drinking you in — the slow climb of his gaze from your heels (stilettos, patent black, weapon-grade) up the line of your stockings, where lace met skin with quiet defiance.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Who,” he said, low and deadly, “were you planning to show this to?”

You looked straight at him. Let him see the fire behind your lashes.

“No one,” you said. “It was for me.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, softer:

“Say stop.”

Instead, you pulled him down to kiss you — the kind that said mine, not maybe. His mouth crashed into yours, teeth catching your lower lip, tongue already tasting salt, sweat, sweetened spice. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers pushing the lace aside with terrifying focus.

You gasped into him. He didn’t flinch.

You felt the low growl in his chest before you heard it. His restraint was crumbling — not from impatience, but from how close it all still lived under his skin.

His breath hitched as your hips rolled against his palm.

Then his hand withdrew — slow, steady — trailing heat across your skin like he didn’t want to take it with him.

He lowered himself without a word, the shift of his weight between your thighs smooth, practiced, inevitable. His hands slid along the backs of your knees, drawing them wider with quiet command.

And then — his mouth.

First one kiss. Then another. Lower. Slower.

The inside of your thigh. The softest skin. The most dangerous intention.

“Sweetie,” he whispered roughly, “I swear to every god I don’t believe in — if you don’t stop me, I’m going to eat you alive and burn dinner.”

Your head fell back, neck exposed, a sound catching in your throat that didn’t quite become a word.

“You promised,” you murmured. “I wasn’t the main course. I’m dessert, remember?”

He bit your thigh, not hard — just a warning.

“Dessert sits and waits.”

And with that, he stepped back. Just enough to drag breath into his lungs. Just enough to return to the pan on the stove.

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice hoarse but firm. “Table service isn’t over yet.”

You stayed. Legs dangling, pulse raging. The air smelled like roasted garlic and want.

He stirred the pan like he hadn’t just had his hand — and tongue — inside you. And then — like nothing had happened — he said:

“You still can’t slice mango properly. You butchered it.”

You scoffed. “Maybe I was emotionally compromised.”

He tossed a pinch of something into the oil, not looking. “You’re always emotionally compromised. It’s your charm.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the wine. Poured it slowly, precisely — like it mattered how the evening tasted.

Pouring with one hand, you slipped off the counter with the other and walked to him — slow, swaying. You held the glass near his mouth.

He didn’t pause what he was doing.

“Is this peace offering or seduction?” he asked, still stirring.

You held the rim to his lips.

“Does it matter?” you whispered.

He drank. Not greedily — just enough to taste.

You set your own glass down, reached for the small bowl of marinated olives you’d prepped earlier without thinking, and picked the darkest one between your fingers. Lifted it toward his mouth.

He opened — slow, lazy — and took it between his teeth. Except he didn’t let go of your fingers.

His tongue flicked, catching your skin. You felt it everywhere.

And still, his other hand kept moving — folding spice into oil, steering the heat, finishing the dish.

Multitasking, you thought. Always had a talent for it.

He chewed. Swallowed.

“You poisoned that, didn’t you?” he asked calmly.

“Only mildly,” you said.

He grinned. “Just enough to keep me wanting more.”

And you laughed.

The first real laugh in months. Loud, open, relaxed. The kind that cracked the shell you hadn’t realized you were still wearing.

He didn’t look at you. Just smiled to himself and said:

“There she is.”

He moved fast once the sauce hit its final note — pan tilted, plated with one elegant sweep, a curl of steam rising from the masala like incense. The stracciatella followed in precise dollops, melting just at the edges. Garnish. A single edible flower, because of course he’d have those stocked.

Two plates. Two glasses. A table already half-set as if this were always meant to happen.

You didn’t have to speak. You moved together — perfectly synchronized without effort. He reached for silverware as you lit the candle. You folded the napkin just as he smoothed the tablecloth. He pulled out the chair, and your body followed like it had never learned to do anything else.

He sat opposite you, hands resting calmly on the table. And then, after a breath, he reached across and took your hand in both of his.

Not possessive. Not pulling. Just… holding.

His thumbs moved slowly over your knuckles, and he looked at you with something rawer than before. Something stripped of bravado, of games, of control.

“If I learn to love you less,” he said quietly, “or softer… will you stay?”

You blinked. The words weren’t what you expected — not from him.

You gave a slow smile. Tilted your head, voice dry but gentle.

“That’s the first time you’ve ever asked,” you said. “Instead of just taking what you decided was already yours.”

His mouth twitched. But he didn’t deny it.

You reached up, free hand brushing across his cheek — the clean line of it, smooth and freshly shaven, like he’d known you’d end up here. Your fingers paused at his jaw. Traced down.

“I don’t want you to love me less,” you said. “I don’t want you to be quieter. Or smaller. Or someone else.”

His eyes closed briefly under your touch. Just for a moment.

“I only want,” you whispered, “that if I ever get lost inside it again… you’ll help me find my way back.”

He opened his eyes.

And the look he gave you — it wasn’t fiery. It wasn’t possessive. It was whole.

He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the inside of your wrist — slow, like reverence. Like ritual.

“Deal,” he said simply.

And then he passed you a fork, as if the world hadn’t just realigned.

You took it, fingers brushing his, and laughed softly.

He raised his glass.

“To second chances,” he said.

You touched your rim to his.