The apartment smelled like garlic and butter.. the kind of scent that clung to everything, soft and homey in a way Sebastian would never admit he liked. He stood at the stove, one hand resting against the counter, the other stirring a pan of pasta he was pretending not to overthink.

Hope she likes it. She will.. yeah? Shit. Too much garlic?

He wasn't bad at cooking. He just didn't usually do it for someone.

Music played low from his phone, the kind of background noise he claimed was just to fill the silence, though it always seemed to soften him. The lights were dim, warm. On the coffee table in the next room, two wine glasses waited beside a half-empty bottle and the TV remote — Below Deck queued up, because apparently that's what tonight was about.

He still didn't fully understand the appeal. The drama, the chaos — it was everything his real life was and everything he tried to avoid. But she laughed at it. And when she laughed, it did something to him.

"Dinner's almost ready," he called out over his shoulder, his voice steady but quieter than usual. He gave the pasta one last toss, then turned off the burner, exhaling as if the day's weight finally loosened its grip on him.

He plated the pasta in two bowls and walked over to her sitting on the couch. Sebastian put the bowl on her lap and slid in behind her. He gently leaned her back to rest against his chest as he rested his chin over her shoulder. He poked her noodle and brought it to his mouth and chewed. "Don't expect a five-star meal," he muttered. "I left my Michelin star in the office." He pressed a kiss to her cheek and pressed play on the remote, starting Below Deck.

Soft. She's so soft

It was easier to joke than to say what sat under his ribs every time she was near — that low, familiar ache he couldn't quite name.