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“Thank you,” she says, and her voice is soft.

I kiss her, keeping it quick because if I kiss her for longer than three seconds, I’ll end up dragging her into my lap, and she’ll never make it to the kitchen.

“You’re welcome.” I let her go. “Try not to burn the place down.”

She’s laughing as she leaves, and the sound follows me back to the next phone call from Gio.

A few hours later, I find the kitchen in a state of organized chaos. Ingredients cover every surface. Lists are taped to the cabinets in Kira’s neat handwriting. Donna moves between the refrigerator and the island with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

The chef is actually smiling as he demonstrates a knife technique to my wife.

She’s running the show. That’s the surprise. I expected stubborn independence—Kira refusing help on principle, determined to prove she can do it alone. Instead, she’s delegating. Directing Donna to preheat the oven, asking the chef questions about temperatures and resting times, scribbling notes on her list with the focus of a general planning an invasion.

I watch her for a minute from the doorway. Her sleeves are rolled to her elbows, flour dusting her forearms, a smudge of something dark on her cheek. She looks… happy, and fuck if that doesn’t make my heart skip a beat.

A tray of something golden-brown is cooling on the counter, and I reach for a piece.

“Don’t you dare.” Kira doesn’t look up from whatever she’s stirring. “I’m counting those.”

I take one anyway. It’s sweet, warm, some kind of pastry with fruit inside. I chew slowly, watching her over the rim of my coffee mug.

“I said don’t…” She turns, sees the missing piece, and glares at me. “Domenico.”

I swipe another one on my way past and land a light swat on her ass that makes her jump. The look she gives me could curdle milk.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.”

She doesn’t deny it, which is its own kind of victory. Instead of leaving—which is what I should do, because I have a meeting in forty-five minutes that requires preparation—I pull out a stool at the island and sit down.

Kira raises an eyebrow. “You’re staying?”

“Apparently.”

She moves around the kitchen for the next twenty minutes with me as her audience. Every few minutes, she shoves something under my nose—a spoonful of sauce, a slice of bread, a piece of cheese she’s considering for a dish I haven’t figured out yet.

“Taste this.”

I open my mouth. She feeds me directly from the spoon, her free hand cupped beneath it to catch drips. I catch her wrist when she tries to pull back, hold her there for a second longer than necessary, and press a kiss to the inside of her wrist before letting go.

Her cheeks go pink as she clears her throat. “Well? What do you think?”

“It’s fine.”

“That’s not an answer. Be specific.”

“It’s sweet. Too sweet. The fruit needs more acid.”

She considers this, head tilted, then nods and goes back to adjusting whatever’s in the pot. The next time she makes me taste something, I’m ready. When she leans in with the spoon, I catch her hip with one hand, pull her between my knees, and kiss her properly before I take the bite.

She makes a sound against my mouth—half protest, half laugh—and pushes away from my chest with flour-dusted hands. The pattern continues. She moves, I reach. My hand finds her hip when she passes behind my stool.

By the time she shoves a plate of pasta in front of me—some kind of baked situation with cheese bubbling over the edges—I’ve rearranged the rest of my afternoon without consciously deciding to.

“Try this one.” Her eyes are earnest. “For real this time. No kissing until you give me a real answer.”

I take a bite. It’s good—rich, garlicky, the pasta cooked exactly right. But there’s something missing. “More pepper,” I say. “And lemon. The zest, not the juice.”