Kevin carefully stirred the sauce, making sure the heat under the pan remained steady. His usually confident movements were now cautious, almost hesitant—he kept glancing at the recipe on his phone, double-checking each step. But the sauce was turning out right. A proper, thick Alfredo, no lumps, with a smooth creamy hue. The rich aroma of garlic and parmesan filled the small kitchen, mixing with the subtle scent of fresh herbs.

He didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until a slight dizziness hit him.

"Damn, it’s... working," Kevin murmured to himself, surprise evident in his voice as he watched the sauce coat the back of the spoon perfectly.

Andrew stood by the cutting board, swiftly and methodically chopping herbs. His motions were precise—no wasted movements, no rush. The knife in his hand seemed like an extension of his fingers, not a weapon. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, catching the golden highlights in his blonde hair and casting sharp shadows across his focused face.

He flicked a glance at Kevin, then at the sauce, and let out an almost imperceptible scoff.

"Don’t celebrate yet. Still got the pasta," Andrew said, his voice flat but lacking its usual edge.

Kevin didn’t snap back as he might have once done. Instead, he reached for the pot—the pasta was al dente, just right. He carefully drained it in the colander, the steam curling upward to fog his glasses slightly as the sound of bubbling subsided.

"It’s done. And the sauce too. We... we did it," Kevin said, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips before he pressed them firmly together again.

Andrew set the knife aside, brushed parsley remnants from his fingers, and walked over to the stove. He scooped a bit of sauce with a spoon, tasted it, his face giving nothing away as he considered the flavor.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle ticking of the kitchen clock.

Then a nod.

"It’ll do," Andrew pronounced, which might as well have been a rave review coming from him.

Kevin wanted to say something back—maybe even smile—but at that moment, footsteps sounded outside the door.

They fell quiet, both turning toward the sound, their expressions shifting back to the guarded masks they usually wore.

Andrew cast one last look at the table—plates, napkins, even candles (Kevin had insisted). Everything was in place.

He turned toward the door, crossing his arms, his typical defensive stance, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something unreadable.

"Well, hero. Your move," Andrew said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in the barest suggestion of a smirk.