Chapter 3
The kitchen smelled like butter and herbs by the time I got everything lined up on the counter.
His favourite meal took a little prep work, but the good kind, the kind that made the whole house feel warm, like something was happening.
I tied my hair up, rolled my sleeves, and set the temperature on the pan a bit higher while my phone propped against the backsplash lit up with an incoming call.
Thalia’s face filled the screen the second I answered, her curly hair piled in a messy knot and her expression already skeptical, like she sensed I was up to something.
“Okay,” she said, squinting, “what is all this domestic energy? Why do you look like you’re about to audition for a cooking show?”
“I’m making dinner,” I said, lifting the cutting board toward the camera. “A surprise for Callum.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, dragging out the sound. “And are you actually following the recipe, or are we doing your ‘eyeballing it is a personality trait’ thing again?”
I grabbed the garlic. “Thal. Please.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh yes. Absolutely yes. You need more than that. Put more garlic in that pan. Ginny, I swear—”
“I haven’t even put it in the pan yet!”
“Good. Then put more. Double it. Triple it, please, I beg you.”
I rolled my eyes but reached for another clove because resisting her was pointless. She pumped her fist triumphantly.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” she said. “Now it might actually have flavor.”
“It has flavor without you bullying me.”
“Incorrect. Everything benefits from more garlic. Even your love life.”
My knife paused mid-slice. “We are not talking about my love life.”
Thalia grinned like she absolutely was.
“Oh? Why not? Things going well? You two still making everyone nauseous with all that wholesome affection?”
I tried not to smile and failed miserably. “Just… normal. Good. Easy.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said again, softer this time, watching me through the screen like she could see something in the way I moved. “You look happy.”
I shrugged a little, heat rising in my cheeks from more than the stove. “I am.”
She smiled, proud and mischievous all at once. “Good. He better appreciate this hand-crafted masterpiece, because if he ever—”
I didn’t get to hear the end of that sentence.
The front door opened, keys landing in the bowl with the familiar clink, and then footsteps padded down the hall, his footsteps, heavy enough to be unmistakable.
Before I could say anything, Callum appeared in the doorway, hair messy from the wind, shoulders broad and warm and filling the space like he belonged in any room he walked into.
He took one look at the stove, then at me, and his whole face lit up.
“Hi,” he said, crossing the room in three easy steps.
He leaned down, kissed my cheek, slow, soft, lingering in the way that always made my breath catch, and then looked at the phone over my shoulder.
“Hi, Thalia!”
From the speaker, she groaned dramatically. “Ugh. Please, no PDA. Put Ginny back on the screen, you menace.”
Callum laughed, low and warm, and nudged his nose against my temple before straightening up. “Rough day, Thalia?”
“Oh, shut up. I only tolerate you because she loves you,” she shot back, pointing a spatula at him even though she was in a completely different kitchen. “And if you ever break her heart, I break your kneecaps.”
He didn’t even blink. He just nodded once, seriously, like he was accepting a mission brief. “Noted.”
I snorted. “You two are ridiculous.”
She tossed her hair dramatically. “Ridiculous? No. I’m loyal. You’re welcome.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, laughing. “I’m hanging up so I can finish cooking before Thalia starts giving you real threats.”
“I don’t make threats,” she corrected. “I make promises.”
“Goodbye, Thalia.”
“Bye, my tiny chef! Love you! Add more garlic!”
I ended the call before she could say anything else and set the phone face-down on the counter. The kitchen immediately felt different, quieter, but still warm with the energy she always brought.
When I turned back to the stove, Callum was leaning against the counter, watching me. Not in a passive way, he never watched me passively. His eyes ran over my face, my hands, the ingredients, like he was cataloguing the whole moment for himself.
“What?” I asked, nudging him lightly with my hip as I reached for the pan.
He gave me a soft, crooked smile. “Nothing. Just came home to my girl cooking my favourite meal. Hard to beat that.”
“Well,” I said, pretending to examine the pan with unnecessary seriousness, “maybe I’m just trying to keep you from starving.”
He stepped behind me, wrapping his arms loosely around my waist, chin brushing my shoulder. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, amused, “I’ve seen how much garlic you just used. There’s no way I’m starving tonight.”
“That was Thalia’s doing.”
“Of course it was.”
His hands slid slowly along my hips, warm and sure, but not distracting enough to make me burn anything. Almost not distracting enough.
“You smell good,” he murmured.
“It’s literally garlic, Callum.”
“And?”
I shook my head, biting back a laugh, and he kissed my cheek again before pulling away, tugging off his jacket and hanging it by the door. The house shifted with him moving around in it, settling, warming, filling with the kind of energy that made the walls feel closer in a comforting way.
“You want help?” he asked, leaning against the counter beside the fridge.
“No,” I said quickly, pointing the spoon at him. “You chop vegetables like a serial killer.”
He grinned. “Inconsistent sizes build character.”
“No. They build uneven cooking and lumpy meals.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll just stand here and look pretty.”
I threw a piece of garlic skin at him. He dodged, not well, but enough to make it dramatic, and it skidded across the floor.
“Rude,” he said, hand on his chest.
“You love it.”
“Absolutely.”
He crossed back to me, nudging my hip again, his voice dropping to something low and teasing. “And you love when I come home to you.”
Heat curled in my stomach, warm as the stove. “Maybe.”
He smiled like he knew exactly what that meant. “Definitely.”
The kitchen hummed with the stove, the soft clatter of utensils, the rhythmic chop of my knife. Outside, the sky shifted toward early evening.
Callum moved around me in that familiar, unspoken rhythm we always slipped into, close enough that I felt him in every small brush of a shoulder or quiet touch at my waist, close enough that the room felt fuller simply because he was in it.
His presence blended with the warmth of the kitchen until it felt like part of the atmosphere itself.
Dinner reached its final simmer, filling the kitchen with a savory warmth that curled through the air.
Callum drifted to my side as I plated each portion, drawn by the smell or the moment or simply by me.
He watched every movement I made with a fond attentiveness that felt reverent, amused, and deeply loving all at once.
“You’re staring,” I said, giving him a look that was only half accusing and entirely entertained.
“I’m appreciating,” he corrected, sliding a palm over my hip. “It’s different.”
“What’s different?”
“You made this.”
I snorted. “I’ve made dinner before.”
“Yeah, but tonight you’re doing it looking all cute and focused…” He leaned down a little, pretending to whisper even though it was just us. “It’s a lot for a man to handle.”
I rolled my eyes, but my smile gave me away. “Sit down, Callum.”
He obeyed with a theatrical salute, chair scraping back as he dropped into it, broad-shouldered, relaxed, already smiling like he knew he’d love whatever I set in front of him. I placed his plate down and he inhaled like he was smelling something divine.
“Marry me,” he said instantly.
“We’re already married,” I reminded him.
“Marry me again, then.”
I shook my head and moved to sit, but he reached out and snagged my wrist gently, tugging me toward him. I leaned in, expecting him to steal a kiss, but instead he brushed his thumb over the back of my hand and said, quieter, “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice, maybe the softness in his eyes, but the warmth that bloomed in my chest didn’t stay contained; it unfurled, flooding through me in the kind of way that made every small moment with him feel bigger.
“Eat,” I said before I melted entirely.
We settled across from each other, and for a little while, the only sound in the kitchen was the clink of silverware and Callum’s satisfied humming as he ate. He wasn’t subtle. Every few bites he’d let out a pleased sound, and every time he did, my cheeks warmed again.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
“Mm,” he said, pointing his fork at me, “I’m appreciating your hard work. Don’t shut down my joy.”
“You’re embarrassing.”
“Good. I plan to do it again.”
He finished his plate before I made it halfway through mine, which was typical. He looked at my plate like he was debating asking for more, then glanced back at me with the most pitiful faux-innocent expression.
I slid my plate toward him with a sigh. “Take it.”
“I don’t want to take your food.”
“You absolutely do.”
His grin gave him away. “Thank you,” he said, pulling it toward himself.
And for several minutes, everything felt warm and easy, like we were suspended in a bubble of domestic bliss.
When the plates were finally empty, he stood, collected everything, rinsed them, and put them in the sink.
“You cooked,” he said, “so I’m cleaning.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Sweetheart,” he said, looking at me with exaggerated seriousness, “I’m not letting you near the dishes after you made me the best meal of the month.”
“Month? I made you breakfast two days ago.”
“Yes,” he said, “but this one had garlic.”
I tossed a balled napkin at him. He caught it one-handed and smirked.
The music from earlier, soft, upbeat, something I’d put on while cooking, was still playing quietly in the background. As he wiped the counter, a song with a slow, warm rhythm drifted through the speakers, something perfect for swaying through a living room or stealing a moment in a kitchen.
I was reaching for a towel when he turned around, crossed the room in two steps, and slid his hands around my waist.
“What are you doing?” I asked, though my hands had already landed on his chest.
He dipped his head just enough that his nose brushed my cheek. “Dancing with my wife.”
“We’re in the kitchen.”
“Even better.”
Before I could argue, not that I planned to, he guided me into a slow sway. His palms framed my hips, warm and steady, and I rested my hands against his chest as he pulled me just a little closer.
“You smell good,” he murmured.
“You’re obsessed.”
“With you? Always.”
I made a soft sound in my throat that wasn’t exactly a laugh but wasn’t not a laugh, either. He heard it, and something soft flickered across his face.
We moved gently, barely shifting our feet, more of a rocking motion than a real dance, but it didn’t matter.
It felt intimate in that private, everyday way, the kind of closeness that didn’t demand anything except presence.
His thumb swept lazy circles against my lower back, and the warmth of him settled into every inch of me.
“You really liked dinner?” I asked, half teasing.
He leaned back enough to meet my eyes. “I love everything you make.”
“You’re biased.”
“I’m in love,” he corrected softly. “So yes.”
Heat rose in my chest again, and I tried to bury my face in his shirt, but he tipped my chin up gently.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered.
He brushed a soft kiss over my mouth, slow enough that it felt like it pulled the air from my lungs. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine.
“I love this,” he murmured. “Coming home to you. Having fun with you. The two of us like this.”
“Me too,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled, brushing a finger along my cheek in that tender way he always did when he was trying not to overwhelm me with affection, even though he did anyway.
The song shifted into something upbeat, and I yelped when he suddenly spun me away from him. I stumbled, laughing, and he caught me easily.
“Warn me next time,” I said breathlessly.
“Never,” he declared. “Keeps you on your toes.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You married me.”
“Bad decision.”
“Liar.”
He dipped me dramatically, so dramatically that my hair brushed the floor, and I shriek-laughed before he pulled me upright again, his arms locked securely around me.
“Callum,” I said, out of breath and grinning against his chest, “we’re going to break something.”
“Yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, “but it’ll be worth it.”
With the room still swaying around us, with the warmth of dinner lingering in the air, with his heartbeat steady beneath my hands, it struck me again how easy everything felt between us.
I loved him. God, I loved him.
This, being wrapped up in him in the middle of our messy kitchen, was our own small, ordinary magic. The kind of everyday bliss I never wanted to lose.