I had discovered my new favorite pastime: watching Tyson as he chopped, sautéed, and flipped pans in my kitchen. I knew I wasn’t the first woman on earth to be utterly mesmerized by a man cooking, but the way Tyson did it elevated the experience to an entirely different level. It wasn’t just the act of cooking—it was the way he moved with such confidence, as if he belonged there, as if he had been cooking in my kitchen his whole life. The way he instinctively guessed where everything was, the assured flick of his wrist as he tossed ingredients into the pan, and the effortless grace in how he stirred sauces—it was pure poetry in motion.
And then there was that moment when the spoon would meet his lips as he tasted what he was making, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration before rela
